


The Demiurge

by takadainmate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Free Will (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam. Goes AU after around 6X20, vague spoilers up to that point. H/C.After the final battle for Heaven, the Winchesters find Castiel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a fic fest at [](https://spn-foxhole.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_foxhole**](https://spn-foxhole.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Written for [](https://murron.livejournal.com/profile)[**murron**](https://murron.livejournal.com/), taking the prompt _S6: The war in Heaven is over. Dean and Sam pick up Cas from the battlefield_.
> 
> Thanks to [](https://cienna.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://cienna.livejournal.com/)**cienna** for her usual beta-ing prowess.

**One**

Castiel is tired.

He's been tired for a long time. Certainly since he chose this own path, since before even that, maybe since he first saw humanity and witnessed its youth and its energy and its life and felt, for the first time, very old.

He feels very old now. Old and worn out and maybe, Castiel thinks, it's time for him to come to an end.

Many times Castiel has heard humans say that when they die, they see their life flash before their eyes. Now, all Castiel sees is eons of mindless servitude, of waiting for nothing at all, of hope and loyalty when both are, in retrospect, pointless. It makes for sad viewing. No matter how many incredible things he has seen; the creation of the Earth, the achievements of mankind, Castiel was never anything more than an observer. None of the achievements were his. In his whole life, Castiel doesn't remember creating anything of his own. He was made to destroy, to kill, a soldier with nothing but memories of brothers and sisters he has slaughtered to his name.

It's strange, Castiel thinks, how little he has changed.

At least it reaffirms Castiel's belief that he chose the right path after all. Father or no Father, he's still sure humans are worth saving, as he's sure his own kind are worthy of independent thought, no matter how anarchic Heaven has become.

Perhaps it will be better now, with Raphael gone.

The archangel's vessel lies close by, eyes still open in surprise, blood still running across the skin of her neck, staining the pale blue rug under her body a dark red. The imprint of Raphael's wings spreads wide across the floor, the shape burned across coffee tables and dressers and cushions. Once, Castiel thought Raphael magnificent. He looked to his brother's wings, great arches of lightning, feathers of rain and cloud, and under them Castiel knew he would be safe.

Once, Castiel had been so very sure. Of himself, of the order of the world, of fate and destiny, and of their Father. Now, Castiel can see that same look in the eyes of the angels that follow him. They see a miracle of their Father's will. They see safety and order but Castiel is none of these things.

It is for this reason that Castiel wonders if it would be best if he died here too. Then there would be no leaders left at all.

_Utter and complete freedom_, Balthazar had said, and perhaps that is the only thing that will put an end to the war.

Castiel is too tired, too worn down and mangled, to fix himself anyway. He's tried because this life was given to him by his Father and he doesn't _want_ it to end. He wants to see Dean and Sam again. He wishes to see Heaven at peace. He longs to see their Father. There's just no strength left in him though. Castiel used everything he had to end Raphael's life, and the thing that makes Castiel sad, perhaps even _angry_, is that he never wanted it to end like this. No matter what Raphael has- had- done to him. No matter how stubborn and frustrating and unrelenting Raphael was, Castiel never sought his death.

That does not mean Castiel didn't expect it to end this way.

Many of his brothers call Castiel naive and reckless, but he's not and he never has been- not when it comes to war- and of all the outcomes of a final battle with Raphael, this was always the one he had anticipated. Neither of them would concede nor submit so both of them would die.

And this time, Castiel does not expect to come back, and he can't quite decide if he is glad of it or not.

He has regrets, so many regrets Castiel thinks he could fill Bobby's house with them, his junkyard too. But he is sure he has done everything he could, fought as long and as hard as he was able. Castiel regrets that he could not make Dean and Sam understand that everything he did was for them. For humanity. He wishes very much he could have made peace with the Winchesters because the last time he spoke to Dean it was in anger and Castiel had said things he would take back, now. Castiel prays for them because he might not be there to protect them for much longer and Castiel has never before met any beings that attract so much trouble to themselves.

It's consolation, of a sort, for Castiel to know he will go to nothing. That he can rest. Castiel just wishes that so many of his brothers and sisters, the bodies of their broken vessels still warm around him, torn to pieces, had not had to join him.

There is consolation too in knowing there is hope that this battle will have brought an end to the war in Heaven. It is only hope, because there's still no guarantee, no clear outcome. No one was victorious. No side proved right. None would leave this place, sure of their righteousness, convinced of their dogma. No one would leave this place at all.

Yet, Castiel knows that the other angels watched this fight, and they would have seen Raphael and his followers fall. They would have seen Castiel and his followers fall too. Some called to him, but Castiel did not reply. Some cursed him, but Castiel could understand their hatred.

There is stunned disbelief in Heaven; the realisation that there is no victor, no judgment from God either way. Perhaps that's the whole point. Soon there will be none to lead them, no one to follow, and it is then that the angels will have to decide for themselves what to do and how to live their lives. In what is left of him, Castiel can hear them begging for guidance, begging for orders and instructions, praying for their Father to _give them a sign_. Castiel sympathises more than they could ever know, but still he will not answer. They are not thinking of destroying the Earth, nor raising Lucifer from Hell, or of killing their brethren. Instead, they are looking to the choices before them.

Castiel hopes they make better choices than he did.

It is out of his hands now, Castiel thinks, and finds the relief so great it's as though a physical weight has been taken from his shoulders and from his chest.

Despite it all- and perhaps it's selfish- but Castiel wishes he were not alone. Each of his deaths in the past happened before he'd even had the chance to feel anything like fear or pain, and Castiel finds this slow bleeding away of awareness an excruciatingly lonely thing. He wishes he could call Dean and Sam to bid them farewell and to wish them well. To at least hear and know that somewhere people he loves are still alive and well. But Castiel doesn't know if Dean's cell phone number is still the same, and he doesn't know if Dean would even answer for him anymore. And anyway, Castiel isn't sure he has the strength to move his arms, so all he can do is look to the ceiling above him, a tangle of lamps and wires and metal and bolts, trying not to pray for help.

He feels pain, in a distant kind of way, his body and his true being mixed and confused so that Castiel can't tell if he is losing blood or his Grace. It's all one and the same, he supposes. The end result certainly will be.

In the silence and in the darkness Castiel lets himself drift. The space is large, the most profane Castiel could find to draw out and fight Raphael, and it's a soulless place to die. It's cold, Castiel thinks, and remembers being cold when he was fallen, mostly human. He didn't like it then and he likes it even less now. He thinks of the blankets Dean had given to him, and the coffee Sam had made him and lets himself sink into the memories because it is better than this place and this pain.

Absurdly, Castiel finds himself hoping the humans that come to this place to work in a few hours, when the sun rises, will not mind too much the bodies of the vessels. The damage they have wrought. So much of the time Castiel finds human reactions unpredictable, against all logic and reason, and he can't even begin to imagine what they will think of the wings seared into walls and floor and furniture. It seems somehow wrong that after thousands of years of life all the power and beauty of an angel comes to nothing more than the shadows of wings, easily covered over, hidden and forgotten. Dust and ash.

It is prideful, Castiel knows, but he wishes he would be remembered. Not as a rebel, nor a traitor, nor even as an angel, but as a brother. As a friend. But Castiel doesn't know if the Winchesters will even care he is dead.

Then, suddenly, Castiel's cell phone rings.

The sound of it is loud in the dead, silent space and Castiel startles. It is a human reaction to jump at an unexpected noise, physical reflex overriding thought, and Castiel is so deeply entombed within his vessel now that he can't stop the way his body jerks. It hurts, pulling at wounds Castiel is not thinking about. Instead, Castiel concentrates on breathing when he doesn't need to breathe and keeping his eyes open, though there is nothing to see. He's fighting to stay alive, Castiel realises, and he isn't even sure why.

Once the pain has subsided, once Castiel can concentrate again on something other than not losing consciousness, Castiel wonders at who could be calling him. Only Dean, Sam and Bobby have this number, and never in the past year had they done anything but pray to him. It must be some trick. Some trap. Perhaps Crowley, not yet realising Castiel was out of the picture. The demon has so many contacts, so many schemes, that Castiel doesn't doubt he'd be capable of finding his cell phone number if he chose to. It's a strange thing though because Castiel had almost forgotten he still carried that phone. It should have been destroyed when he was blown apart by Michael, but here it is, ringing and ringing and Castiel doesn't have the strength to reach for it.

Even the grey concrete ceiling above him seems dimmed now, washed out and removed. He should be able to see beyond it, to Heaven, or at least to the sky and the atmosphere and the life there. But Castiel can't reach beyond the confines of his failing vessel. He imagines, though, that it's Dean calling him. He imagines that Dean still cares and is surprised when it eases his pain and his isolation, no matter how false. No matter how much it's just wishful thinking. Imagination. Lies. All things that Castiel knew nothing about before he met Dean.

The cell phone rings and rings and rings, and it's the last thing Castiel hears.

***  
  
A long time ago, not very long ago at all, when Castiel was more or less human and had to sleep, he dreamt of Hell. He loathed it; the powerlessness, the reminder of a humanity he'd never wanted, being subsumed by his own memories and the inventions of his own mind. Castiel would stay awake until either he passed out or until Dean or Sam _forced_ him to close his eyes.

Castiel finds himself in those long-forgotten, familiar dreams now and thinks that perhaps there will be no peace for him, that he has been judged by their Father and that this is Hell. For an angel to be sent to perdition is not without precedent, and Castiel is in agreement that he has done enough to deserve such a punishment. He has disobeyed, and he has disobeyed again. He has done all of the things that angels were not supposed to do and the worst of it is that he regrets very few of them.

So in his dream- or in Hell, and it doesn't really matter which it is- when the sharp claws of demons dig into his flesh and into his wings, trying to taste his blood and his Grace, Castiel does not fight them. It is better to concentrate on the pain than to remember.

After a time, or maybe after no time at all, Castiel hears Dean's voice calling him, and Sam's too, and thinks that this must be some demon trick, or else he is hallucinating. Perhaps he's gone mad. The voices are insistent, and Castiel wants to tell them to be quiet; to _leave him alone_, but he can't move because the demons have their hands in his chest, ripping out his heart and his lungs for the hundredth or thousandth time so that he has no breath. They tell him to wake up, and they tell him to live, and Castiel wants to argue that they are too late, and that he is awake, and that they are _annoying_.

_Unless_, and then Castiel panics, unless Dean and Sam are here in Hell with him and that is the one thing that Castiel couldn't stand. He's taken them from here before and he would raise them a hundred times more if he had to. It's too full of darkness and regret to see, but Castiel can sense them both close by and he forgets that this is- might be- isn't- a dream and struggles against the weight of demons and the pull of their knives. Castiel will not leave the brothers to rot here, so he fights and it hurts but Dean and Sam's voices are insistent and Castiel is determined, incensed, because this is the one place they don't deserve to be.

Castiel fights until he can hear their voices clearly and Dean is saying, "Wake the fuck up," and, "Open your damn eyes, Cas," and Sam is saying, "Dean." Castiel fights until he comes to realise that it's Dean's hand clamped around his arm that is holding him down, and Sam's hands pressing down against his stomach that hurts so much.

Sam says, "He's not healing," and then there's more pressure and Castiel opens his eyes and he's gasping and he's possibly not as dead as he thought because there is light and it's bright in a way that Hell could never be.

Castiel can't think what's happening. His thoughts are disordered and make no sense. He can't remember where he is, but when the brightness dims and Castiel can see again, there is Dean, hovering above him and saying, "Shit, Cas. Shit." Castiel can feel hands gripping at his shoulders, pulling at him. "We're getting you out of here," Dean says. "Hang on, man."

"I'm dead," Castiel tells him. It's strange to Castiel that this is something Dean hasn't noticed, but he feels it's something Dean needs to know.

"No, you're not," Dean insists.

The agony as Dean and Sam pull him to his feet makes Castiel very much wish he were. In his dreams, or in Hell, he doesn't remember it being this visceral, like his insides are tearing apart. There is a ringing in his ears, a rushing sound, that which is angel trying to claw its way out of a body it has become embedded within, but not remembering how to _get out_. His eyes burn, his mouth tastes of smoke and ash and it's hard to make out for all the noise, but Castiel thinks he can hear Sam repeating, "Shit, shit, shit," and Dean ordering, "You stop that right the fuck now, Cas."

He's splitting in two, Castiel realises; both this body and his Grace dying and not knowing how to do it together.

It's then that Castiel remembers with a strange, distant clarity what is happening and where he is and why he should not survive. Castiel wants to tell them to leave him, and how did Sam and Dean even _find him_ anyway? Though, Castiel supposes, this final battle would have been a loud, bright thing no matter how much Castiel has tried to keep it hidden. Castiel would try to tell Dean that he was supposed to die here, but Castiel can feel Dean's hand pressed against his mouth and he's shouting, "You stay in there, Cas. Don't you even think about leaving." There is anger and frustration in his voice, and it's true that Castiel has not often been able to deny Dean anything. When Dean's hand moves to Castiel's eyes, Castiel realises that Dean is trying to keep his angel-self inside this vessel and Castiel doesn't want to burn him, or blind him, so he holds on to his Grace, concentrates on remaining alive. Castiel ignores the voices of his brothers, and the weight of his broken wings, and concentrates instead on Dean and Sam's voices. They are arguing.

"We should take him to a hospital," Sam says.

Dean sounds disbelieving when he replies, "He's _glowing_, Sam."

Castiel thinks, he is not glowing. He is not a firefly.

"We patch him up. He's tough," Dean continues, and Castiel thinks he might be pleased by the compliment. "Look at him. If he were human he'd be dead."

"Then we should try and call some other angel, because I sure as hell don't know how to _patch him up_," Sam retorts.

That's the last thing Castiel wants, and he tries to wake up, open his eyes, speak, anything, but he can't. He realises he's not on his feet; the Winchesters must be carrying him and he can barely discern it between the cuts and the tears and the aching.

He's relieved, then, when Dean argues back, "Fuck, no. Angels did this. I wouldn't trust any of them to come anywhere near him right now. Or ever." Sam makes no reply and Castiel wishes he could see them, but too much light still fills his eyes even though he knows it's barely dawn. Maybe he's unravelling, trapped inside this body. It's difficult to remember what it was like to be without a vessel, what it was like before. Before Hell and Dean and _choice_. The weight of his physical form is a constant now, with him even in Heaven and Castiel isn't sure he remembers how he's supposed to be without it. He wonders if he's hiding in this human form. It will always be a reminder of the time, not so long ago, when Castiel was human; a small, vulnerable physical thing. With his Grace seeping away, and his wings in ruins, Castiel wonders if he'll become that way again. Perhaps this will be his punishment.

Somewhere close by, out in the world, Dean is telling Sam to open the damn door, and Sam is telling Dean to calm the fuck down, and Castiel realises he is losing time somewhere. Missing things, because the next thing Castiel knows the familiar smell of the Impala- leather and oil and Dean and Sam- surrounds him and he doesn't remember getting inside the car. Or getting to the car. Or why Sam is asking, "Did he stop breathing again?" and he sounds worried.

"No." Dean's voice, from somewhere above him. "No, he's still there."

Under his back, Castiel can feel the grooves of the backseat of Dean's car. He remembers sleeping on them, when he was human, and how he could never decide if he hated them or not. If they were supposed to be comfortable. Now he concentrates on the way the leather creaks and how he can feel warmth on his face that might be the rising sun refracted through the window glass. It's better than thinking of the pain. Distracting.

"Cas," Dean calls, speaking quietly. He sounds tired. "Man. Can you open your eyes? Jesus. Can you even hear me?"

There's a long screeching noise which Cas thinks is the trunk being opened, and then the car shudders. Castiel remembers this too; things being thrown inside in a hurry, needing to get out of somewhere before they get caught.

Dean calls his name again, and this time Castiel understands the words and what they mean and that Dean is asking something of him. Castiel tries to comply, tries to open his eyes and look at Dean. He would, Castiel realises, like to see Dean. And Sam too, but it's never been this difficult before to manipulate the muscles of his eyelids. They have never felt this heavy, not even when he was human.

The trunk slams shut, and Castiel hears Sam say, "Come on, Dean. We've gotta get out of here."

There are the sounds of rustling and Castiel fights to see what is happening. He manages to pry his eyes open, just a little, and in the red-orange light of dawn Castiel can see his shirt, stained and torn.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says and he's shaking thick dust out an old blanket, laying it over Castiel. It's heavy and too warm and smells musty and unpleasant.

"Dean-" Castiel tries to complain, to tell him to take the blanket away because Castiel doesn't have the strength even to push it off. It comes out slurred, barely recognisable as a word and Castiel frowns, frustrated and annoyed and _helpless_.

In an instant, though, Dean's hand is on his shoulder and he's looking down at Castiel, smiling. It's an uneven, humourless thing, but there is relief there. "Cas. Thank fuck. Hang on, man. We'll fix this."

Castiel had wanted to let himself fade away. He'd thought he'd never see Dean or Sam again. After everything that has happened he would have expected them to leave him there. But Castiel never told them where he would be. He never told the Winchesters what he meant to do, and he wondered how they had found him. Why they had even bothered. Yet here is Dean, telling him to live, and Castiel has never been able to deny Dean anything. Castiel nods and it hurts his head, makes him dizzy and sick, but Dean's smile becomes more of a real thing so Castiel doesn't mind the pain at all.

***

The rumble of the Impala's engine is oddly comforting. When Castiel can he listens to the way the sounds change; different roads, different speeds. There's no music which Castiel thinks is strange. Instead, Dean and Sam talk in low voices in the front of the car and Castiel can't make out what they're saying.

They don't stop for a long time, or at least it feels like a long time for Castiel because he can feel every movement, every jolt, every change rattle through his human body and it hurts. It's all Castiel can do to remain silent and still and to keep breathing. He preferred it when he was not awake. Everything is too close and too much, like all of his human senses have been amplified a thousand fold, and every angel sense has been dampened so that the world sounds hollow, his brothers' voices nothing more than an echo in the back of his mind. If he concentrates, focuses on something other than the layers and depth of pain, Castiel can still sense Dean and Sam's thoughts; hurried, anxious, angry, fragile things. They too are a comfort, and Castiel clings to their familiarity and their warm presence, even though he knows he should be concentrating on fixing his vessel and his Grace.

The sun is high and warm against Castiel's face when Castiel feels the surface under the tyres of the Impala change again, this time to something much more uneven and rough and it jolts Castiel out of the half-conscious state he'd been languishing in. He must make a sound because he hears Dean say, "Shit. Sorry, Cas," then the car comes to a sudden stop, the engine cutting off.

"You think this is far enough?" Sam asks. Castiel hears doors opening, feels the sway of the car as the brothers get out, and Dean replies, "It's gotta be."

Now that they are no longer moving, there is little to distract Castiel from his discomfort. He's bent into a space not long enough for his vessel, let alone what is left of his angel form. There is no air, too hot without the feel of the breeze coming in through Sam's open window and why, in this heat, Dean thought it a good idea to cover him with a scratchy, thick blanket Castiel can't imagine.

Between the heat and the way the outside world continues to slip away from him when he's not paying attention, Castiel catches only words and phrases of what Dean and Sam say, "We've got to," and, "wake him up," and, "next we'll," and, "Cas." He can only guess at what they're doing and why they've stopped until the doors open either side of him and Sam is leaning over him, a bleary, unfocused, upside-down image that confuses Castiel for a long moment before he remembers he's lying down.

"Hey," Sam greets, smiling sympathetically. "We're gonna take a look at you. Sorry if this hurts, man."

Castiel blinks, and then Sam hooks his arms under Castiel's back and pulls him into a sitting position and it's all Castiel can do to not struggle and call out because he might be half-dead but he thinks he could still do the brothers some damage through his voice and to do them harm is the last thing he wants.

"That's it," he hears Dean encourage, can feel Dean's hands on his legs, then on his shoulders, pulling at the material and it takes a disturbingly long time for Castiel to realise that Dean is trying to take off his coat.

"Stop," Castiel manages. "What are you-?"

The hands on him still, and Dean says, "Cas, we need to-"

"No," Castiel cuts in, shaking his head. He was much happier lying down and moving forward and not having the Winchesters helping him when they should have left him behind. "I'm fine," he tries, because it always seems to work for the brothers, but Dean just scoffs, "Like hell you are. You're still freaking bleeding. All over my upholstery."

"I'm-" Castiel starts to deny, but then he looks down at himself and sees the blood on the blanket. His shirt is saturated, there are stains across the arms of his coat and Castiel wonders at how much blood a human body can hold.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," Dean says and returns to stripping off Cas's coat. "Let us handle this." Dean makes it sound like an order and Castiel is too tired to argue.

They work in silence, peeling away layers of clothes that Castiel has not removed in many months, revealing cuts, slashes and burns. Castiel watches as Dean's frown deepens. Castiel can see questions twisting through his thoughts, and finally he asks, "What the hell happened?"

"I fought," Castiel tells him, because it's the easiest way to explain.

"I get that, but..." Dean trails off, holding Castiel's arm lightly, studying a wound that is flesh cut through to the bone just below his elbow.

"Raphael and his followers were powerful," Castiel tries.

"Cas." Sam, on his other side, is looking at him like he doesn't know where to begin. "Do we need to stitch these up? Can you heal them?"

He doesn't ask why Castiel hasn't already.

"We don't have enough to stitch up this mess. Jesus, I don't think a hospital would have enough to stitch all this." Dean hasn't taken his eyes from Castiel's arm and Castiel wishes he would look up so he could see him properly. It's been a long time since they just looked at each other.

"They will heal," Castiel assures the brothers and hopes it's the truth.

Dean threatens, "They fucking better, Cas. You are not dying on us, you hear me?" He does look at him then and Castiel has hope that maybe they aren't as lost and broken and unreconsilable as he'd thought.

Castiel remembers his brothers and sisters lying dead and he thinks of all the angels he's killed and wonders why he always, somehow, impossibly, manages to continue living.

"You hear me, Cas?" Dean repeats. He's grinding his teeth, angry and impatient.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel says. "I can hear you."

He has made no promises, but it is apparently enough for Dean because he nods and goes back to prodding and poking at Castiel's vessel.

For the first time, Castiel concentrates on knitting his body back together again, on setting bones and stopping blood and cleaning out infection, and Castiel tells himself that he only does it to get Dean and Sam to leave him alone.

***  
  
"Maybe we should buy a tent," Sam suggests after two nights sleeping in the Impala and Dean has made no move to look for a motel as evening moves into night for a third day, and night moves into _late_. The car, Castiel thinks, is beginning to smell strange. Like socks.

"I hate camping," Dean says dismissively. He's driving. They're always driving.

"Yeah, because sleeping in the car is _so much better_." Sam has been unhappy for some time, and Castiel can understand because every time Sam gets out of the car now he's limping, grimacing where his knees ache.

"Enough with the whining," Dean complains. "We're not stopping."

Sam grumbles and shifts about uncomfortably in his seat but remains silent for so long that Castiel thinks he has resigned himself to another night of immobility and poor sleep. To Castiel it makes very little difference, but this can't, he thinks, be good for either of the brothers. Over the past two days Castiel has learnt that he can barely walk, let alone fly. He has learnt that Dean is _obsessed_ with trying to get him to like coffee and that Sam is not as subtle at asking questions as he would like to think. Being so dependent on the Winchesters is frustrating, the feeling of helplessness overwhelming, and Castiel cannot fathom how Dean and Sam have not yet killed each other because they bicker and fight and sometimes they are irritating enough that Castiel wishes he could return to his own brothers. His own silent, hateful, confused brothers.

In those few times when it is quiet, when there is no music in the car and Dean and Sam are not arguing but wrapped up in their own thoughts, in driving, or late at night when they are both asleep, then Castiel can hear the other angels’ voices, loud and close. They know he's alive, and some of them search for him. Some of them seek guidance, answers to questions Castiel can't answer. Some seek his blood. Revenge. They blame him for the chaos and disorder which grips Heaven and Castiel supposes they have every right to. He was once like them and he knows how they think. He knows all too well what it's like to have the security and certainty of orders and hierarchy pulled out from under you.

Castiel has said nothing of this to Dean and Sam, and yet still he gets the impression they have guessed some of it. It seems likely this is the reason Dean refuses to stop moving and Castiel does not have the heart to tell him movement across the Earth means very little to an angel. It is entirely possible Dean already knows this anyway. For Castiel too the motion- the act of driving forward- gives the illusion of heading toward something, as though they have some idea of where they're going. This is another kind of security that can't last, but for now Castiel is not willing to let it go. He is particularly unwilling to force all of them to face a past where they were at odds, and a future that is unclear.

Still, despite all of Dean's love and adoration for his car the fact remains that humans are not, Castiel is certain, meant to _live_ in vehicles. This too Castiel has learnt.

After many many miles and a small town with three churches and a bar advertising cut price beer Sam tries again. "You can still sleep in the car. Cas and I can get a room, maybe some food that isn't from a gas station and five years out of date." He scrunches up his nose. "Maybe a shower."

"We are quite pungent," Castiel agrees and Castiel can see Dean glaring at him in the mirror.

"You hardly say a word for two freaking days, and when you do talk it's to tell us we reek?" Dean accuses. "And to _agree with Sam_?"

"It's the truth," Castiel says.

Beside Dean, Sam is grinning at his brother. "Seriously man," he says. "I need a shower. _You_ need a shower. I can feel sand in places I don't want to be feeling sand."

Dean grimaces, "TMI, Sam," but he might be wavering because Sam pushes, "I don't know what you have against stopping, Dean, but we can't keep this up forever."

Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean glances back at him in the mirror.

"Dean," Sam presses. "It's not-"

"I get it, Sam," Dean interrupts sharply. It's not the first time Dean has cut Sam off like this when he's trying to get Dean to talk to him about what they're doing, or where they're going. It has been the same for Castiel whenever he suggests that they don't have to do this. That they don't need to look after him. He can take care of himself. Possibly.

There is a tense silence in the car and Castiel can't think of anything helpful to say so he leans back against the door, the press of the door handle against the small of his back a familiar discomfort now. He picks up Dean's most recent copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_, because Sam had been unable to find anything else to read in the trunk of the car and Castiel has learnt that long hours spent driving can be very dull with nothing to occupy your mind. Left to his own devices he finds himself thinking of all the things he has done wrong, and thinking of his brothers and sisters who he has killed, and imagining all the ways he could have- _should have_\- done things differently. Castiel knows it's a pointless exercise but he finds himself returning to it again and again. He would rather read about Melanie, whose hobbies are exercising and going out with her friends, and her recent discovery of online dating.

"It's bad for your eyes, you know," Dean says, too loudly for the quiet in the car, like he is trying to make up for it. Usually he would turn on the radio. "To read in the dark like that. I don't know how you can see anything." Dean leers, but it's half-hearted and unconvincing at best. "Unless you're looking at the pictures."

"Dean," Sam admonishes.

Castiel had forgotten it was dark. "I can read in this," he tells them. He can see too well. There is still betrayal and reticence written in the way Dean holds himself apart from Castiel, in the way he speaks to him and watches him like he just doesn't trust him. Not really. It's not as obvious with Sam, but the distrust is still there.

They still smile though, and tut and hum over the slowly healing wounds they have bound and wrapped and insist need to be changed and cleaned on a regular basis. Castiel lets them and can't decide if it's for their sake or his own. If Castiel is honest with himself, it is impossible to deny that he likes the attention.

"I never knew there were articles and shit in there," Dean says and Sam laughs.

"You've been buying that crap for as long as I can remember and you've never once even _glanced_ at the words?"

"That isn't a magazine for reading, Sam." Dean gives his brother a look Castiel is going to ignore.

"And you bitch at _me_ for too much information," Sam throws back in disgust.

They argue and Castiel reads that Melanie has been on seventeen dates, two of which ended in sex.

"Next gas station we stop at, I am buying him a book," he hears Sam say, and Dean responds, "You buy him any of that chick lit shit I _know_ you like I will hurt you."

They speak as though Castiel is not right there, in the back seat, listening to every word they say even when he's reading, or trying not to think about what he's going to do when he finally heals, or trying to ignore the calls of his brothers, or just watching the world go past as they drive and drive and drive. Most times Castiel doesn't much mind being ignored in this way because he never has anything to add anyway and he understands that Dean and Sam are used to it being the two of them alone. There are times when Castiel feels like an intruder and still he can't understand why they came for him. Neither has given him any reason, nor any explanation of how they found him. Up until now they have barely spoken of those last few days at all.

"He might like it," Sam argues. "Maybe angels like romance novels."

"Dude, _no_." Dean groans like he's in pain. "Now I have a mental image of, like, Zachariah reading Harlequin books. It's freaking me out."

Castiel has to admit the idea is disturbing. In the article, Melanie says that she is still available and continuing her search for the right man and that she can be found on the _Busty Asian Beauty_ internet dating pages.

"I think I'd like to meet Melanie," Castiel says in a brief pause in the brothers' argument. "She seems kind."

There is a strange silence and when Castiel looks up he sees that both Sam and Dean are staring at him.

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that," Dean says slowly, seriously, but he's half-smiling as he returns his eyes to the road.

"Nearest gas station, Dean," Sam urges. "I'm buying him _anything_," and Dean nods in agreement.

***

Sam sometimes joins Castiel in the backseat and teaches him to play cards. He doesn't have a real set of cards, he says, because Dean lost them in a game of poker months ago along with two hundred dollars and his jacket. They only have Uno cards- colourful things- and they play the simple game over and over and Sam wins sometimes. He seems to enjoy it, and the game is oddly distracting so Castiel doesn't mind the hours they spend playing. It's always Dean who brings their games to an end, angry, calling it dumb and childish and stupid, and Sam tells Castiel that it's because Dean has never won a game of Uno in his life and he's _bitter_.

If he ever plays with Dean, Castiel decides, he might let Dean win.

_Might_.

Sitting in the back now they are playing Snap and Sam is taking it so seriously that Dean keeps laughing at them, telling Sam to calm the fuck down.

"Best of fifteen?" Sam asks when they reach seven to four games and in the front seat Dean sounds like he's choking he's laughing so hard.

"Just admit it, Sam," Dean somehow manages between gasps for breath. "You suck at this."

"Not as much as you suck at Uno," Sam snaps. Dean's grin widens and Castiel knows this argument could go on for a very long time, so he intercedes, "I am tired," because it has worked at other times to silence the Winchesters. It also happens to be true.

It works again this time.

"Oh," Sam says, putting the cards down. "Sorry, Cas. You need anything?"

Castiel shakes his head, leans sideways so that he is resting his weight against the seat and almost wishes he was able to sleep. Nothing seems to help him shake the lethargy he feels so much of the time. "I'm alright," he assures Sam who looks unconvinced but smiles and asks Castiel, "Re-match later though, right?"

"Of course, Sam," Castiel says. Today they've already had seven re-matches and Castiel has come to think that Sam is trying to distract himself from their current situation, from thinking of anything other than the here and now, as much as he's trying to distract Castiel. Not once has Dean told them where he's headed, or even if he knows, but it's been four days and they have yet to stop for anything more than three or four hours.

Dean teases, "Cards are tiring, man. I get that."

"_You_ are tiring, Dean," Castiel responds, because he has learnt that Dean enjoys it when Castiel argues back. It's also the truth.

Dean snorts but says nothing more so Castiel lets his mind wander. They are three thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles south of the highest point of the Earth and the sky is dark with heavy rain clouds. Castiel can smell the coming storm and hidden behind them the cold, distant presence of angels. They are omens; this is neither the place nor the season for heavy rainfall. Castiel knows that Dean and Sam realise this weather isn't natural because they speak on the phone to Bobby asking his opinion. They don't talk of it to Castiel. He can't tell if they're trying to shield him from the news of floods and droughts, of snow and heat waves, or they don't trust him to answer truthfully about the phenomena. They suspect it's angels, and they're right, but Castiel can't bring himself to say anything because it's his fault. All this is his fault because he should go back to Heaven, take charge, stop the other angels treating Earth like somewhere they can take out their frustrations without consequence. They are children pulling the wings off of butterflies because they can and Castiel no longer has the will or the strength to stop them.

And Castiel is selfish, too.

He doesn't want these endless, pointless card games with Sam to end. He wants to finish the appalling crime novel Dean chose for him three gas stations ago.

Castiel has been reading it as a human would, word following word and page following page and it is slow and strange but oddly fascinating because the writer doesn't seem to follow the standard rules of grammar as Castiel knows them, nor does he feel constrained by definitions of words. When Castiel asked Sam if this was usual in literature, because Chuck's writing had been like this too, Sam laughed and told him that no, they were just terrible writers.

When they are driving and it is quiet and the sun has almost set so that the car is filled with long jagged shadows Castiel watches. He watches shadows slide across the seats and across his hands and across Sam's legs where he is sitting, unmoving, staring out the window at the miles and miles of nothing they pass. He watches Dean tapping the steering wheel. This has become his world.

It starts to rain.

At first, it's just singular drops streaking across the windows as they speed along and Castiel turns his head so he can see them better. Then, suddenly, it's as though something _breaks_ and the droplets turn to sheets of water, the world outside reduced to a greyness that Castiel can see nothing beyond with his human eyes. There wasn't much to look at anyway, he knows, but occasionally there was a sign or a building or another car. Now it's just the three of them, enclosed, and for the first time Castiel feels claustrophobic and restless.

"Son of a bitch." Dean curses and reduces his speed, leaning forward in his seat as though it might help him see through the wall of rain surrounding them.

Dean looks at Castiel in the rear-view mirror. "Did you do this?" he asks. "Is this, like, the least subtle hint ever that we need a shower?"

Castiel can't decide if Dean is being serious or not. "I can't make it rain," he tells him, then pauses because now that he considers it, Castiel has never actually tried. "I don't think I can make it rain," he amends and Dean raises an eyebrow at him.

Outside, the rain is loud, hissing and beating against the car roof and windows and Castiel closes his eyes and tries to ignore it.

In front of him, Dean is grumbling now about angels and little brothers breathing too much and steaming up the freaking windows so Castiel stops.

It's almost a relief not to have to breathe.

Two days ago, maybe even yesterday, Castiel doesn't think he'd have been able to do this; to keep his vessel alive using his Grace alone, without the aid of air and a respiratory system, then without circulation or a heartbeat. Slowly, as the wounds in his vessel and his true self heal, his strength is returning and Castiel isn't sure if he is glad for it or not.

By letting what is angel take over what is human, Castiel can remove himself from the world, from _all_ worlds. He can hide inside himself, remembering the calm contentedness he once felt, long ago, in The Garden. He always liked Joshua's voice, and would listen to his brother for hours as he talked of his flowers and his trees and of Earth. Back then Castiel thought Earth had to be an incredible place from the way his brothers spoke of it and for all the strife it caused. Somewhere exotic and beyond his reach. Sometimes Castiel looks back on his younger self and wonders at how he could ever have been so stupid and naive.

Still, it's a good memory, and Castiel has very few of those from Heaven.

The next thing he knows Sam is shouting in his ear, shaking him. There's a tear along his bicep where Raphael tried to slice off his arm. It's not fully healed yet and Sam has his hands gripped so tightly around Castiel's arms that it stings, as Dean would say, like a bitch. The pain forces himself out of his memories, back into his current reality of humid, fetid air and too-loud torrential rain.

Castiel lurches head first into the seat in front of him as Dean veers dangerously off of the road, breaking recklessly. The tyres skid and Castiel is lucky that Sam catches hold of him before he can slam into anything.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says in disgust and as Castiel blinks his eyes open he can see that Sam is glaring at his brother and Dean is turning in his seat to glare right back.

"Then don't tell me Cas is not freaking breathing," Dean throws back between clenched teeth, and in the next second both brothers are looking down at him where he is half-lying across Sam's legs and half-fallen into the foot well behind Dean's seat. It is not comfortable, but then Castiel doesn't think he's known anything to be _comfortable_ for a very long while.

Sam's eyes widen. "Cas! You're alive!"

Castiel frowns, because he hadn't been aware there was any doubt about that.

"I am," he confirms. Sam is looking at him like he can't quite believe it. "You are hurting my arm, Sam," Castiel adds. He would like to sit up, but is oddly balanced in the small space and fears what would happen if he tries to move himself.

"Right- I. Right," Sam stutters. "Sorry, man." He gentles his hold on Castiel's arm and Castiel sighs in relief as Sam pulls him upright again.

When he turns to Dean, though, his expression is furious and he's looking between Sam and Castiel like he can't decide who to be furious _at_.

"You said he wasn't-" Dean starts, stops, starts again, "What the hell, Sam? He looks like he's breathing fine to me."

"He'd stopped, I swear!" Sam defends, and narrows his eyes at Castiel accusingly. "What was that?" he demands.

"I was resting," Castiel explains. He pushes himself back into what has become his corner of the car and wishes Sam would move away too. There is not enough _space_. He wants to stretch his wings. He wants to fly. He wants to not be followed and hounded and have people shouting at him at every damn turn.

Sam says, "Without breathing. Or, you know, having a heartbeat."

"Yes," Castiel snaps. Joshua always used to say he had too little patience with people. He knows he should be grateful for their help, and he is, but Castiel has fought hard for freedom and it would be nice to experience it for himself for once. Just for once. "Without those things," he says, "Because I don't _need_ them."

He clenches his jaw and doesn't care that it's an extremely human thing to do. He also doesn't care that Dean's furious glare is now fully turned on him.

"Well excuse us," Dean says coldly, "For giving a crap when we thought you'd fucking died on us."

Dean turns away, starts up the engine again, and Castiel can see that his hands are so tightly wrapped around the steering wheel that his knuckles are white.

Sam looks _disappointed_.

Castiel thinks he should apologise because he hadn't even thought about how it might look for a human to find his vessel that way- with no breath and no heartbeat- but for the past year he feels as though that's all he's been doing; apologising for his brothers, for all the questionable things he's done, he's _had to do_. For trying to keep them all alive. Beneath the old, familiar camaraderie, beneath the brothers' care and concern there is still lingering resentment and mistrust. It's only a matter of time before it comes to the fore. The Winchesters have never been known for their reserve and Castiel can see it sometimes when they look at him, as though he's a stranger and they can't be sure of how he'll react to anything they do. And sometimes, like they're not even sure what they're doing taking Castiel around with them.

Whatever balance, whatever friendship they've managed to resurrect and rebuild in the past four days Castiel knows it will neither negate nor overcome everything that's happened in the past year.

Because if there is one thing Castiel has learnt it's that everything good always comes to nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

They stop at a diner that evening instead of picking up whatever food they can salvage from gas stations and convenience stores and Castiel can't decide if it's a concession- not an apology but a peace offering- or Dean just needs better food to fuel his anger. His mood has not much improved and he gets out the car, strolling towards the diner without saying a word or waiting for either of them. Dean's hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his head is bowed as Castiel watches him move quickly across the forecourt. From the diner, light spills out into the darkening parking lot. Many of the street lamps here are broken, or burn dim yellows that barely give out any light at all. It's still raining, though not as hard as before and despite Castiel's almost desperate need to be out of this car he contemplates staying where he is because it will take him an age to make it to somewhere else out of the rain alone.

It's pathetic. An angel who can barely support his own weight, stuck in the car of a man who he isn't even sure he can call friend anymore. Castiel might still be able to hear his brothers, to manipulate the human world around him to an extent. He still might know the name of every creature in every language that there ever was, and know every tactic that any human or angel or demon ever thought of, but it's all useless, pointless if he doesn't even have the strength to cross a parking lot.

Perhaps Sam recognises something of his frustration because he offers, "Dean'll calm down. He's just cranky without meat."

Castiel wasn’t thinking about _Dean_ he thinks sourly. Except where he was.

"Will he?" Castiel asks. He doesn't look at Sam but continues to watch through the diner windows to where he can see Dean holding up three fingers to a lady who greets him just inside the door. There are so many things Castiel wants to say; _Nothing I do is ever good enough for him_, and _I only seem to make it worse_, and _Dean is never calm_.

He's actually surprised when Sam answers, "Yeah," and sounds sure of it. "When it comes to family, he'll forgive pretty much anything."

It has been Castiel's belief that whatever kinship Dean felt for him has been long lost and it is strange now to hear Sam refer to him in this way without hesitation. _Family_. The one thing that consumes all Winchesters. The one thing Castiel wishes for, above all else.

Castiel replies, "That seems unwise." Certainly, Castiel knows all too well how foolish it is to trust so blindly those who can hurt you the most. There is no way Castiel can ever return to that unconditional faith which was once such a central part of his life. It's something of a miracle that after everything Dean has been through he still holds on to this familial trust. Castiel would scorn it, except he admires it and wishes he could feel something similar for his own brothers. He wishes he could believe they could ever be anything more than what they are. But angels are not made that way.

Duty. Obedience. It was never about emotion with angels, but about absolute deference and it has proved impossible to teach them any different.

And who is Castiel to teach anyone anything anyway?

"That's Dean." There is an unhappy look on Sam's face as he looks down at his own hands, shifting in his seat. Castiel knows that Sam carries too much guilt.

It's times like these Castiel wishes that he understood more of humanity, so that he would know what to say.

Instead, Castiel asks, "Would you assist me to the diner, Sam?"

If nothing else this should distract Sam- distract them both- from dwelling upon all the ways in which they've failed. It seems to work because Sam looks up and smiles at Castiel, and says, "Sure."

Outside, it starts to rain harder, the sound of it oddly entrancing, a steady dull beat. As Sam gets out of the car he pulls the collar of his shirt up over his head and Castiel wonders why he bothers. It seems unlikely it will help keep him dry at all. For a moment, Castiel watches Sam hurrying around the back of the car.

It's just as Castiel puts his hand on the door handle, because he might not be able to walk straight but he can certainly do something as simple as open a door, when he feels it; a familiar tugging in his Grace, the static ringing of wings approaching. There are angels close by. They're headed their way and Castiel isn't sure if they have come in peace, or if they have come to kill him. He doesn't dare open himself to their presence to find out, because then they will have his exact position, and they could harm him through that connection, and Castiel has to protect Sam and Dean.

Urgently, Castiel calls, "Sam," and Sam leans down and is smiling at him from the other side of the glass, his hair dripping rain, and he is _in the way_. "Move," he orders, and Sam's cheerfulness falls away immediately, stepping aside and pulling open the door.

"What is it?" he asks, helping Castiel stand. Castiel's hands feel cold where they grip the car frame above the door. Water is running through his shoes and it makes him shiver. Under other circumstances he might be interested in the new sensation but there's no time. It's too much effort, his head feels heavy and dizzy and all he's done so far is get out of a car. How he's supposed to protect the brothers like this Castiel doesn't know, but he's going to try. There's no time to tell Sam to retrieve the angel swords Castiel knows the brothers have in the trunk but don't talk about. Castiel can feel them, as a human might smell a rotting corpse. Once part of an angel they are decaying without the source of their strength. In time, they will crumble to nothing, and the name of the angel they belonged to will be lost forever. But now their names resonate through the blades and Castiel knows they once belonged to Suriel and Nakir. There is no time to warn Dean and run. There would be little point in running anyway.

"Angels," Castiel says. He must stand alone, give at least the impression of strength and resolve, so Castiel brushes Sam's hands away and turns towards where he knows his brothers will land.

"Should we-" Sam begins, but cuts himself off when two angels appear before them. They are dressed in impeccable black suits and that is not a good sign.

There is lightning and for a second it brightens the dull, darkening sky, casts shadows of their wings across the wet pavement. Castiel hopes that Sam doesn't see the shape of his wings, twisted broken things that have barely healed at all and Castiel has been trying to ignore since he awoke and felt the heavy, useless weight of them. It is agony to move them, but Castiel must, and he draws them back and away from where the other angels can see them. There can be no hint of weakness if Castiel can help it.

The rain doesn't touch the angels even as it soaks through Castiel's coat at his shoulders and slides down his face from his drenched hair. Thunder rumbles across the sky and Castiel can read enough of the angels' presence to feel their anger and their hatred.

Castiel greets them, "Brothers."

He knows the greeting will probably only anger them further, but he does it anyway because he never wants to forget that they _are_ his kin, even if it comes to killing them. If he forgets, Castiel thinks, it would be like he'd stopped caring. As much as it might seem like the greatest of all curses at times, Castiel doesn't want to lose that emotion and empathy he has fought for, that he has given up so much for.

"I don't want to fight you," Castiel implores. He manages to straighten his back, square his shoulders and takes a couple of steps forward so he is between the angels and Sam. Somehow, Castiel keeps himself upright, manages to look steady on his feet in a way he hasn't for the past four days. It is a triumph and that, too, is pathetic.

Castiel carefully hides his fear, his pain, his doubt beneath layers of determination and affection for the Winchesters. These are foot soldiers, twisted by imaginations of betrayal and heresy. Or maybe twisted by the truth of it. He looks at them and remembers himself, before Hell and before Dean.

But Castiel has yet to find the right words to make them understand, as Dean once did.

One spits, "Castiel," and the name is an oath, something made of disobedience and blasphemy and disgust. He is Ramiel and he twice fought with Castiel along the Borderlands. When they were young they praised their Father and went to battle wrapped in armour of Faith, bearing their swords with the Righteousness of the brainwashed.

"You haven't changed," Castiel says, and wishes he had.

The other angel Castiel doesn't know, but he knows he is called Isda, as all angels recognise each other.

"I am as God made me," he states, prideful. His vessel is shorter even than Castiel but still he manages to look down at Castiel.

"You are as our superiors made you," Castiel tries. "You are as you made yourself."

Another flash of lightning. The dim street lights flicker as the angels' anger rises.

Castiel resists the urge to glance back towards the diner, to see if Dean is still safe inside. He wishes he had the strength to transport Sam inside with him. He wishes for too many things.

"What if I am?" Ramiel sneers. "Better to be that than ally myself with _demons_."

And this is why Castiel can never return to Heaven.

Any moral authority he once had is long lost. Working with demons. It's something no angel could ever forgive. Castiel had known that when he first made an agreement with Crowley, but back then there hadn't seemed like any other option. The worst thing, though, is that Castiel doesn't know if, given the chance to do it all over again, he would choose any different.

Ramiel's eyes are rage and hate and Castiel realises his brother is glaring at him as though he were a demon himself. It's not something he's ever considered, but now Castiel wonders what his form looks like to another angel. He has spent so much time with this vessel, saturated through its flesh. He has been remade and remade again, with Jimmy, without Jimmy. Angels are made for war and are made to withstand massive amounts of damage but Castiel knows he is scarred in a way few others are. That was Hell and Zachariah and Raphael.

"I won't argue with you," Castiel shakes his head. He is too tired and wet and cold for this, and he is done with trying to lead angels. Let them decide for themselves. Let them suffer the consequences for themselves. That, Castiel knows from experience, is the best lesson in free will there is. "Leave us in peace," he asks, and there is thunder so loud the windows of the diner rattle.

Castiel is not surprised when Ramiel refuses, "No." Nor is he surprised when in the next moment Ramiel has his sword drawn and pointed at Castiel's throat and is charging straight towards him.

Behind him, Castiel hears Sam yell, "Shit! Cas, you can't-" and then Ramiel is inches from his face, lifting his blade. There is such loathing in his vessel's expression, and his Grace burns with it. All Castiel feels is sadness and resignation. Four days ago- even two days ago- Castiel would not have been able to stop his brother, and he's not sure he would've been much bothered by that fact, except here and now he must keep Sam safe.

Ramiel's eyes widen, drawing his shoulders back, preparing for the kill, and in that last second as the blade hurries towards his throat Castiel manages to meet Ramiel's sword with his own, deflecting the point with a loud clang. He's surprised by how easy it is to fall back on instinct, on reactions formed over thousands of years of battles and fighting, trusting to his own instincts. He knows he doesn't have long before what little strength he has fails. This fight must be won quickly, or else not at all.

Castiel goes on the offensive, probably overreaching, but the aggressive attack takes Ramiel by surprise. The followers of Raphael, Castiel has found, always overestimate their skill and their strength. It is that deeply ingrained belief that the righteous will always be victorious. Castiel stopped believing in that, and in his own righteousness, a long time ago.

Ramiel missteps backwards and Castiel uses the opportunity to swing out, catching him across the stomach and it's deep enough to break through the vessel to the angel. Ramiel cries out, clutches at his stomach, bleeding bright white Grace, and retreating. It's reckless, but Castiel can feel the weariness of his limbs, his head heavy and dizzy, the pull and stretch and tearing open of his wounds, so Castiel presses his advantage, slashing out at his opponent, catching him again. His reactions aren't fast enough though, and he's clearly not thinking straight because Castiel had completely forgotten about the other angel.

Sam's warning comes too late, but it's enough so that Castiel can turn at least partly to meet the attack. He can't bring his sword up in time though and is forced to counter the other angel's blade more with his human elbow than anything. Better there than somewhere that might kill him.

Castiel feels the point dig deep into flesh, through muscle and sinew and right down to the bone. His arm instantly feels like it's on fire, like someone's dipped it in holy oil and set it alight, but Castiel suppresses the instinct to jerk away, for his fingers to loosen and drop the blade. Instead, Castiel pushes forward, punches Isda around the head with his uninjured arm and with all the power he can put behind it- anger and frustration and desperation- and is thankful when it sends Isda sprawling away.

There's no time to catch his breath or look to the damage, or anything more than half turn back towards where Castiel last remembers seeing Sam because then Ramiel is on him again, grabbing hold of his neck and _squeezing_. It shouldn't be as damaging as it is. Castiel doesn't need the air but he is so bound to this vessel he finds himself gasping and choking at the same time as Ramiel grips at his true self, digs fingers into him. He cuts at Castiel's wrist and in the shock of pain Castiel's fingers loosen and his sword slips from his hand. This close, Ramiel can't miss how weakened Castiel is, the damage wrought in him, and he grins. It's a cruel, merciless thing and Castiel wonders if angels were always such assholes.

Ramiel squeezes harder, sneers and taunts, "Look at you, Castiel. Broken, corrupt thing. There is nothing in this universe that could convince me _you_ were chosen by our Father."

His vision is blurring and Castiel knows this feeling; the fading of consciousness before nothing and he can't let it happen. If he does he'll be dead, and Sam and Dean with him.

There's a shadow looming somewhere behind him and Castiel can sense that it is Isda and that he is raising his sword. Castiel watches as Ramiel nods, forcing Castiel's head forward. They mean to execute him and Castiel can't think of anything. He has no plan nor strategy to escape this. His millennia of experience come to nothing, replaced instead by a rising panic and he gasps for breath. It's raining so hard it almost feels like drowning. He reaches out, grabbing at his brother's arms and trying to pry them away from his throat, to loosen his grip, but Ramiel is unflinching and filled with all the vengeance of Heaven and Castiel can't escape. In his brother's grip, Castiel shivers, cold water running across the back of his exposed neck, down the back of his coat and shirt, down his human spine.

Perhaps Sam and Dean will run, Castiel thinks. Perhaps they are already safe. He doubts very much Ramiel or Isda have any real interest in them anyway. Angels are too arrogant to believe humans could be any threat to them. Both Lucifer and Zachariah paid for this presumption and, it seems, other angels have not learnt from their mistakes.

Castiel hears Ramiel say, "This is mercy, _brother_," and he hears the rain and the thunder, the blood of his vessel loud in his ears, and somewhere distant there is Sam calling his name.

The next thing Castiel knows the hand around his throat is suddenly gone. There's a flash of light that isn't lightning but instead the all too familiar blaze of an angel's Grace being extinguished. With nothing to hold him up Castiel feels himself fall against the wet, hard ground. Castiel gasps in breaths, forcing eyes open that he doesn't remember closing, blinking water away. His sword is in Sam's hand and the point is buried in Ramiel's back.

There is no time to mourn his brother though because Isda's eyes are filled with rage and now his sword is aimed at Sam.

"_You_," he spits, and Castiel can see that Sam won't be able to move fast enough to get away in time. Isda surges forward, going straight for Sam's heart, and Castiel makes a grab for his brother's ankles, trying desperately to knock him down. His hands catch, but he doesn't have the strength to pull Isda off his feet and all he succeeds in doing is slowing him for little more than a second. In that time though Sam, trying to dodge the blade, has moved inches to his left and the sword pushes into his chest rather than his heart. It's not much, but it's not instant death and it gives Castiel- and Sam- a chance.

It still hurts though, to see the shock and pain on Sam's face, in his wide eyes, as the cold, smooth metal splits open his skin and muscle and punches through into his lung. It hurts to know it's his fault.

Sam chokes, and Castiel sees blood on his lips as he falls, still clutching at Castiel's sword. Castiel hopes- because it is too dangerous to pray- that Sam can hold on for just a little while.

It's then- of course it's then- that Castiel hears Dean's voice and if there's one thing he didn't want Dean to see it was this; Sam's blood staining his shirt, mixing with the rain water on the ground and spreading out around him as he coughs and struggles for air he can't get enough of because one of his lungs has collapsed. Dean is calling Sam's name, and he's calling for Cas, and he's running towards them, Isda turning to meet him with Sam's blood on his blade. Castiel has to finish this before Dean gets to them.

That part of Castiel which is all cold, calculating soldier credits Dean's appearance with at least being the best possible distraction. He uses Isda's divided attention to gather himself, to push away the burning agony in his right arm, to concentrate on taking in Isda's stance, looking for a weakness, anticipating how his brother will try to counteract him. It's when he sees Isda shift his weight, the attention of the angel as well as the human eyes turned to Dean, disdainful and derisive, that Castiel sees his chance. He takes it without thinking, letting instinct take over again and before Dean can take one step closer Castiel is on his feet, crossing the space between himself and his brother and seizing Isda's sword arm, twisting viciously, breaking the human bone beneath with a snap that can be heard even over the thunder and the rain and Dean's yelling. Isda likely barely feels it, but for a split second the wrist of his vessel is vulnerable and before Isda can heal it Castiel has turned the sword towards his brother's heart, stabs down and the blade sinks deep.

Castiel holds his brother's vessel as his Grace dies. He feels life slip from him in the brush of wings against his face and his arms. It has been a very long time since Castiel felt the wings of another angel and it fills him with disgust and self-loathing at how he welcomes the touch, at how this is how he has ended up feeling them again. He lets go, takes an unsteady step backwards and watches the body that was once an angel fall. They'll know now, Castiel thinks. The other angels will know that he lived and they'll know what he's done and the war will go on as though nothing has changed.

It's Dean's voice that cuts through Castiel's despair, calling, "_Sam_!" and, "Don't you dare die." So often Dean seems to be the one watching his family and friends die, and Castiel would spare him this.

He stumbles towards where Dean has pulled Sam up onto his lap, is pressing down against the wound on Sam's chest. There's blood seeping through Dean's fingers, red stains at the cuff of his already soaked jacket. Sam is strong though, and he is fighting, his eyes still open and looking at his brother with regret. Castiel would tell him it's alright. That there was no need to fear but he can't seem to summon the energy. Instead, Castiel falls to his knees beside Sam and feels the cold and the weight of water soaking through to his legs. Dean doesn't spare him even the briefest of glances and Castiel thinks it likely he blames him for this too. It would, after all, only be the truth.

Dean's voice catches when he says, "Just hold on, Sam. I'll think of something." Rain streams down his face but his eyes are red and Castiel knows he's crying and desperate and he can see that there is no human medicine that could save Sam now. Not in the parking lot of a diner in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere.

No human means.

Castiel reaches out with his one working arm to rest a hand on Sam's forehead and smiles when he sees Sam's eyes cross, following the movement. "Dean," he says. "Let go."

It's probably the most impossible thing of all to ask of Dean but when he looks to where Castiel's fingers are rested, when he looks up to meet Castiel's eyes in something between anger and surprise, his expression turns blank, suppressed hope, and Dean pulls his hands away. It feels like trust and Castiel nods once, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way before turning his attention to Sam.

This injury was his doing, and Dean is relying on him, so Castiel pours everything he has into Sam. He knits together every torn piece of flesh, he fills Sam's body with what blood he's lost, reinflates his lung, reconstructs a shattered rib, ensures there is no bruising, nothing where it shouldn't be, not even a scar. Once, fixing a human this way was a simple thing. Now it takes everything from Castiel, and more, but he holds on until he's sure everything is done. Perfectly fixed. Then Castiel lets go.

***

"...send it to my phone." A pause, and then Dean says, "Yeah, I know." He sounds resigned and exhausted and he's keeping his voice quiet.

The radio is turned on low and Castiel can just about make out the words of a song he's heard before over the Impala's engine and the shushing sound of tyres speeding along a wet road.

There's another pause before Dean says, "He's woken up a couple of times. No damage far as I can tell."

He's hearing half a conversation, Castiel realises. Dean must be on his cell phone.

"No," Dean says, and there's tension in his voice. "He's still breathing. That's something, right?"

Castiel wonders who Dean is talking about, and who he's talking to. There aren't many people Dean would call, the most likely of them in this car. Sam.

His presence is close by, sleeping peacefully, and Castiel is relieved.

Something, though, is making Dean on-edge. Castiel can hear it in the way Dean talks; carelessly, like it means nothing when it means everything. Short answers that don't give too much away. Dean is wary and distrustful, filled with an uneasiness Castiel doesn't understand.

This is Dean's car and Castiel has never known Dean to be anything other than soothed, warmed, made to feel secure, by it. Humans, Castiel thinks, are strange in the way they associate objects with emotion. But then, in the years since he first inhabited Jimmy's body Castiel has become fond of his coat. It was a constant when everything else changed. When he was losing his Grace it gave him warmth. When he was fighting the war in Heaven it reminded him of what he was fighting for. It's then that Castiel realises the familiar weight and smell of it is gone. There's the scratchiness and the old musty smell of the blanket he'd been covered with before instead. The smell is worse now, stronger. Castiel tries to push it away but finds his arms _hurt_ when he tries to move them.

His brothers, Castiel remembers, and he can still feel the ghost of Ramiel's blade cutting across his wrist and Isda's sword embedded deep within his elbow, both shredding his already ragged Grace. If he continues this way, Castiel thinks, there will be nothing left of him.

Dean is saying, "I don't know what else to do, Bobby." He sounds lost, and Castiel can sympathise.

The sounds are growing dim and Castiel knows he's either falling asleep again or into unconsciousness. It's tedious, and he'd thought he had more strength than this, and as Dean's voice slips away Castiel realises he hadn't even opened his eyes.

Sam's voice is the next thing Castiel knows.

"...at some point. We can't drive forever, Dean."

This argument again. Castiel wishes he'd stayed asleep, but Sam's voice is urgent.

"I think we should try and get Cas to drink something. He looks like crap."

Castiel feels like crap too, and is sure the aching and the nausea wasn't this bad last time he awoke. His skin feels like it's crawling and Castiel has the sudden urge to scratch it all off. It's like his Grace is burning through his human boundaries, seeping out into the skin, and it's too hot and too confining.

"I'll stop for water," Dean allows. His voice is sharp, irritated, and Castiel wonders how long the brothers have been arguing. Castiel remembers it was still dark the last time he was awake, and now the sun is high, setting again.

"_No_, Dean," Sam presses. "We need to get out of these wet clothes. We need to clean Cas up. We need to eat real food. You need to sleep. You're gonna run us off the freaking road if you keep-"

"I'm not stopping," Dean cuts in.

There's a long pause, and Castiel hopes that perhaps he'll be able to rest now because he doesn't want the pain and the discomfort he can feel with increasing clarity. But then, more softly, Sam tries, "This isn't helping."

"You don't know that, Sam," Dean defends, then makes a frustrated sound. "I stop once. I take my eyes off you two for five fucking minutes and everything goes to hell. What do you expect me to think?"

It was bad luck, Castiel thinks he should tell them. Castiel's luck. Winchester luck.

The angels had been following for some time, searching Castiel out, wrapped in the guise of rain and thunder. Thunder had always been a friend of Ramiel.

Outside it's still raining. Castiel can hear the pattering of water against the windows, the whirring of the windscreen wipers, but the sky is silent. It's easier to listen to this than the clamour of the other angels in his head. There is anger and confusion and Castiel wishes he knew a way to make things right.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says. "But we can't just drive around forever hoping that nothing catches up with us. You know something always does."

Sam sounds well, Castiel thinks. At least that was something he was able to fix. Like the Winchesters, Castiel isn't sure he could live with knowing he was responsible for his friends' deaths. Castiel has the desire then to see Sam, to see for himself that Sam is healed.

Opening his human eyes takes some effort and Castiel wonders if he'll ever again be as he was before; full of power such that even when his human eyes were closed he could still see, through time and across Earth and Heaven and into the Grace of his brothers and the souls of humans. After all he's seen, though that is a power Castiel doesn't regret losing.

Dean is arguing, "You give me some other idea of what the fuck we're supposed to do and I'll be glad to listen."

Castiel tries to blink away the blurriness and the front seat of the Impala comes into vision. There's the back of Dean's head, part turned away from the road.

The road ahead of them is deserted. It's impossible to see much of the sky where Castiel has been propped up in the corner of the backseat, but he imagines it to be filled with dark grey clouds promising more rain. There's a chill in the air that makes Castiel think there will be hail soon.

At the other end of the back seat, Sam has his jacket done up as far away as it will go and his hands are pushed deep into his pockets. Definitely alive and breathing and unharmed. He's scowling at the back of Dean's head.

"Stopping," Castiel offers, and finds his throat dry and soar. "Stopping will make no difference." The words come out as more of a cough but before Castiel has time to try speaking again the car is swerving and Dean is yelling, "Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!" At least this time the momentary loss is not so bad that Castiel topples over.

Beside him, Sam shoots Dean a frowning glare as his brother rights the car before he slides himself closer to Castiel's side. He lays a heavy hand against Castiel's arm and Castiel wants to shake it off because it is too hot and the weight of it is too much but Castiel holds himself still. He doesn't know why he's reacting this way. A hand should be nothing, even as a human.

"Hey," Sam smiles at him. "How you doing?"

"Fine," Castiel responds, because he's been worse. Sam looks doubtful, like he's waiting for more, so Castiel adds, "I don't like this blanket. It itches."

"Sorry man," Sam says apologetically. "It's the only one we have."

Castiel sighs, resigning himself to the discomfort until he can heal himself. If he can heal himself.

His clothes are still damp and Castiel grimaces at the half-dried cotton against his arms. One of the brothers must have taken off his shoes and socks, and Castiel flexes his toes. They're cold.

"Cas," Dean calls, and when he looks up Dean is frowning at him in his rear-view mirror. Castiel can only see his eyes but they are dark and tired and it makes Dean look far older than his years. "You need to stop doing shit like that."

For a long moment Castiel just looks at Dean before asking dryly, "Like saving Sam's life?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," Dean snaps in reply.

"There was no time for anything else." And Castiel doesn't have the patience to justify his actions to Dean.

"You could've-"

"No, Dean," Castiel interrupts. "I knew what had to be done, I knew that I could, so I _did_. And you would have done exactly the same thing, given the opportunity."

It's only the truth, and from the way Dean looks away, back to the road, turns his head so that Castiel can no longer see his eyes, Dean knows it too.

He shifts in his seat and Castiel thinks Dean is working himself up to something. It's likely an argument neither of them wants to have.

"That why you went and got yourself pretty much killed by Raphael?" Dean says in a low voice. "Is that why you never asked us for help?"

"Maybe now isn't the time-" Sam tries.

"It's never gonna be the fucking time, Sam." Dean is angry, back stiff and shoulders set and Castiel wishes he had more strength to deal with this; human emotion that Castiel is still trying to understand both in himself and in those around him. He hates it very much. He hates that Dean refuses to see anything beyond his own world, where family is everything, where the Supernatural is the enemy. Castiel hates that Dean takes everything as a personal affront, and most of all Castiel abhors that for much of the time Dean won't _listen_.

"I'm not going to explain myself to either of you," Castiel tells them. Both the brothers are still alive and well, their world is intact, and for at least a while the threat of apocalypse is averted and Castiel really can't comprehend what more they could possibly ask for.

"Cas," Sam says and it sounds like a warning.

"So you don't care?" Dean's voice is cold, indignant. "You don't care that you screwed us over? That you fucking lied to us? You don't see anything wrong with that?"

Even like this, drained and over-warm and exhausted Castiel feels irritation, an anger at Dean that is all too familiar.

"I did what needed to be done. I don't regret that."

Castiel can see the disappointment on Sam's face and he turns away, letting his forehead rest against the cool glass of the window. It's a welcome relief, even if the vibrations make Castiel dizzy and maybe a little nauseous. Castiel didn't ask to be saved. He owes the Winchesters nothing. There are more important things to Castiel beyond the Winchesters. Except, that's not exactly true.

Dean is saying, "I don't know why I fucking bother. You never change."

"You once told me not to," Castiel reminds him. It's not hard to see that Dean is spoiling for a fight, but Castiel is not going to give him one. There is nothing to say.

Looking at the rain, at the reflection of his vessel in the window glass, a face he barely recognises, Castiel realises he can't feel his wings. They were so damaged in the fight with Raphael that Castiel knows he should be glad for the numbness but all he can think is that he'll never fly again. That he is Falling again, and this time there will be no going back.

Dean, it seems, will not be deterred, ignoring Castiel and going on, "You don't tell us what you're doing. You leave us to think you're not coming back, and you wouldn't have, would you? If me and Sam hadn't tracked you down you'd have died and never come back. We could have _helped you_."

They couldn't have, as far as Castiel can see, but Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that's not what he wants to hear. That that's not something he could ever accept.

"Dean," Castiel says and it's both exasperation and plea.

There's more to this than Dean feeling betrayed. Knowing Dean, it's likely guilt. Perhaps frustration and helplessness. Castiel understands these things, remembers them and the anger that followed.

"I get that we're only _human_," Dean starts, and it's at this point that Castiel decides he's heard enough. Instead, Castiel concentrates on trying to push away the blanket he still has wrapped around him because it's too hot and confining. The movement causes his elbow to hit the door and Castiel grits his teeth as pain shoots along his arm. He holds himself still, closing his eyes tightly and hoping it passes quickly. The continuous thrumming of the car is not helping.

Slowly, _infinitely_, the pain recedes and Castiel realises that Sam has a hand pressed lightly against his good arm and is telling Dean to shut up. "Cas, man, you okay?" he asks.

"This arm," Castiel admits and looks down at the useless thing, hidden under the blanket, blinking his eyes open because the light is too bright.

"I wrapped it up the best I could," Sam says. "Let me see."

He shuffles closer, peels the blanket away from the arm and for the first time Castiel can see where his arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow. Castiel wonders that he can't feel the bandages, but his skin is all crawling discomfort. Red stains have bled through where he was cut and stabbed, fresh blood that Castiel can smell. Beside him, Sam is frowning.

"I thought this had stopped," he mutters unhappily. Sam reaches to take Castiel's arm. All Castiel's instincts tell him to pull away, to not let Sam touch him, but he stays himself with a discipline he has learnt over thousands of years. No matter how gentle Sam is, it hurts when he curls his fingers around Castiel's forearm and draws it towards him.

"Sorry," Sam apologises. "I know this has got to hurt."

"It's fine," Castiel lies, because Sam is doing his best.

Dean snorts. "Yeah, right."

"It's fine because there is nothing that can be done about it," Castiel snaps with a vehemence he didn't intend, but he doesn't regret because he is sick of Dean's sniping. His head hurts and these human limbs ache and he's never felt so bad before, not even when he was human and Castiel wishes he had somewhere to go where he could just _rest_.

"Don't, Dean," Sam warns and Castiel is grateful for a moment, until Sam begins unwinding the bandages. Then there's just a lot of pain and if Castiel thought he felt terrible before, he feels even worse now.

"Dude," Sam says when he's unwrapped enough to reach skin. "Are you supposed to be this hot?" He adds quickly, "And no Dean, that is not a come on."

Leaning forward, Sam lays the back of his hand against Castiel's forehead. He's too close, Castiel thinks, and can't understand it because he doesn't remember ever feeling claustrophobic before. Still, the hand is cool, like the car window.

"Jesus," Sam swears. "You're burning up. That can't be normal."

"I feel very warm," Castiel informs Sam. He's not quite sure what Sam wants him to say but he thinks to ask if maybe they could open a window, or let him out of this blanket. It's shameful. It's _intolerable_, to be so weak he can't even throw off a length of fabric.

"Do you feel sick?" Sam asks.

Castiel has watched humans live and die with so many diseases and ailments, but he's never experienced them for himself. He has no comparison. "I don't know how that feels," he replies.

"Your head hurt? Your stomach feels weird maybe? Your limbs ache?" Sam frowns at Castiel's arm. "I guess that last one is a given. Cas, you gotta let us know what's wrong."

"And don't you dare say you're _fine_," Dean cuts in and Castiel closes his mouth, rethinks what he was about to say.

"Yes," he settles on.

Sam has returned to unwrapping the bandages from Castiel's arm and Castiel really wishes he hadn't. "Yes?"

"To all those. My head. There is... nausea. I'm very tired."

"It's gotta be infection." Sam is looking down at Castiel's wrist, lightly prodding at the long, straight cut, and Castiel hisses. "Sorry. Shit. I didn't even- I didn't think I needed to clean these."

"Can you clean it out?" Dean asks, and Castiel can't work out who he's talking to, but is thankful when Sam answers, "Yeah. Yeah. But we have to stop. Get supplies. Do this right."

Castiel is finding it hard to concentrate on what's going on. The thrumming of the car, welcome before, grates on his nerves now. He wants to fly away, to feel the cool wind across his Grace. His throat is dry and Castiel remembers that this is thirst.

In the next moment Sam is shaking his shoulder and calling his name and he's losing time again. He doesn't remember falling asleep. If that was asleep.

"He's not waking up." Sam sounds panicked about something.

The sun is lower in the sky now. Castiel can see it even with his eyes closed.

Dean's voice, then, and for once it doesn't sound angry. "What do we need?" he asks.

The next thing Castiel knows, Sam is pressing plastic against his lips and there is water. "Drink," Sam instructs, and Castiel obeys. The water cools his throat, but it feels heavy in his stomach. His human stomach. It hurts, and Castiel wonders why he hasn't healed whatever's wrong with him. He doesn't know why he can't see, why sound is muffled and distant, why his senses are confusing and disorganised and make no sense. His brothers are loud. He can't hear them. There's a demon seven miles away to the east. Dean is consumed with memories of Castiel's second death.

"We're gonna stop," Sam is telling him. "Cas, please wake up." The sun is lower in the sky, and Castiel can't remember why that matters. If it matters. "You gotta help us make it safe for us."

"There is no safe," Castiel manages. Of all beings, Castiel would have thought that Sam and Dean knew this. And his voice is strange. Not his voice. Someone else’s voice. A human voice.

"Not helping, Cas."

Castiel hears Dean speak, and he's close by, not in front of him as Castiel has become accustomed to, but somewhere beside him. The door is open, Castiel realises. They've stopped. The door is open and there is rain falling against his face. It's not cold enough, Castiel thinks.

"Fuck," Dean swears. The rain is gone, and when Castiel opens his eyes there is Dean hovering above him, a hand on his cheek. "You really weren't kidding. You think we should put him in the tub with ice or something?"

"No," Castiel protests. No matter how much he would like the burning to stop, he dislikes the sound of an ice bath even more. Heat, at least, is familiar. Hell is hot. Heaven is warmth. Was warmth.

"Sorry, dude," Dean says, and Castiel feels a hand against his neck. "You don't get a say."

Above Dean is a ceiling, paint peeling and plaster cracked, yellowed with age and cigarettes.

"We're not in your car," Castiel tells Dean. It's difficult to read the expression that crosses Dean's face, almost impossible when Castiel can't focus with his human eyes. Instead, he reaches out with his Grace and understands that Dean is worried. That Dean is afraid he's watching Castiel die again.

"I'm not dying," Castiel reassures him, and Dean pulls his hand away.

"You can't heal but you can read my mind?" Dean's voice is cold, but he is thinking that he is glad Castiel at least has something angel left in him.

"I couldn't see with these eyes," Castiel explains. "I wanted to see."

"You can't- Oh, Jesus," Dean starts. He turns his head away, sitting up. Castiel can't see but he can tell from the way Dean redistributes his weight on the bed beneath them, at the way the mattress moves and creaks. "Sam," he calls, "Hurry up in there."

There is water running, the sound echoing off porcelain, and Castiel finds Dean's arm, tries to tell him, "I don't like the cold."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but Castiel knows he's unsympathetic. He's thinking better to be cold than dead. "I hate the cold too."

"I'm not _dying_," Castiel insists.

"I'd believe that more if you didn't have a temperature of, like, five hundred degrees, and if half the crap coming out of your mouth wasn't in some language even Sam's never heard before."

Castiel has no memory of speaking anything other than English. He wonders what he was saying.

In front of him, Dean is a blur of colours. He bends closer to Castiel. "You know what I'm thinking, right?" he asks quietly. Castiel can see that Dean is imagining looking for Castiel, after that night when they had gone their separate ways. There were omens, and there is a memory where Dean is looking at reports of death and disaster and trying not to wonder if he'll have to kill Castiel. He doesn't know if he could ever really do it. Everything they've done together, and everything they've lost, and Dean doesn't want it to end like this. "So don't let it," Dean says.

And Castiel promises he won't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

"A long time ago," Castiel tells Sam and Dean, "I was in Babylon." He's not really sure why he's telling them this but it's better than listening to his brothers screaming in his head and it's a distraction from the fire in his Grace and running through his vessel. His body. It's difficult to talk, and Dean keeps telling him to stop, but Castiel can't. He doesn't want to. He doesn't think he's talked this much in all his life.

Castiel tells them of great Towers and of the humans he saw but didn't meet because it wasn't permitted to speak to humans then. He wants to tell them about how he heard his Father's wrath, and saw it, and for that instant in time he was sure he had looked upon his Creator but there are no words to describe the feeling in any human languages. The thought makes Castiel laugh, even though it hurts, because that's what this whole story is about after all.

He hears Dean telling him to calm down, and Sam saying, "It's just the fever."

"Just," Dean scoffs, and then there are cold hands on him and they are trying to pull him and push him somewhere. Castiel doesn't want to go. He wishes to curl up inside himself and rest and watch the human world pass around him. Moving is pain along limbs that shouldn't weigh him down, in a stomach he shouldn't feel, roiling and _sick_.

"Cas." Dean sounds frustrated and annoyed, but this is often how Dean sounds so Castiel thinks nothing of it. "You've gotta let us move you."

He holds fast and tells Dean, "No."

"He's like a freaking toddler," Dean complains. "With super-strength."

"He doesn't know what he's saying," Castiel hears Sam reply, but Castiel does know what he's saying. He knows that he wants to stay where he is because the world is upside down and twisted and not right. Castiel knows that Dean is angry at him, and at himself, and that he's not going to _take any shit_. Sam is practical, all controlled concern, but when he looks at Castiel he isn't sure he'll survive, and Sam worries for Dean if he doesn't.

"I know lots of things," Castiel tells them. Dean is still yanking at his arms.

"You know how to get into the damn bath?" Dean asks and Castiel can't imagine why he would need to bathe.

He remembers the rivers of ancient Babylon, and the people he'd seen washing there. Castiel tells Dean and Sam these things, and about their homes and their fishing nets. He'd wondered, even then, what it felt like to feel water rushing over human skin, to swim and to splash. It's unfair, Castiel thinks, that he's been human and he still doesn't know.

Beneath Sam's worry and his urgency even now Castiel can feel his interest, and he loves that after everything Sam can still be fascinated by such simple things as human history.

Castiel says to Sam, "I haven't been to Earth many times, but I would tell you what I remember."

"Thanks, man." Sam lays a hand heavily on Castiel's shoulder. This, Castiel thinks, would be the correct time to smile, but the next thing he knows there is cold and hands everywhere on him, pushing him down. He's disoriented and it's an automatic response to struggle and fight; Castiel has too much experience of being imprisoned, of being _forced_, to think anything good can come of giving in. The world around him is a blur of off-white. There's glass and Castiel hears it smash a second before he feels spikes of pain in his hand, all along his arm. In that instant the world comes into sudden, sharp focus and Castiel realises this is a bathroom, and Dean is saying, "Jesus fuck."

Looking down, there's blood on his hand and it's spilling out, creating swirls on the surface of the water; water he's sitting in, half-clothed, and Dean and Sam are leaning over him looking both angry and desperate.

"Why am I-" Castiel tries to ask, but his throat closes up around the words.

"Cas!" Dean exclaims, like he's surprised that Castiel spoke, and then he's right in front of Castiel, holding onto the back of Castiel's head like he doesn't expect Castiel to be able to keep his own head upright. "Cas, you with us?" Dean says urgently, and he's searching Castiel's eyes and face almost frantically.

"I never left," Castiel frowns. Dean raises his eyebrows.

"You've been out of it for over an hour," Dean tells him. "And you are a _bitch_ to handle." Dean presses a hand against Castiel's forehead, turns to Sam beside him and instructs, "More ice."

Sam nods once and disappears out of the bathroom door before Castiel can ask why his left eye looks red and swollen.

"I healed Sam." Castiel looks to Dean. The front of his shirt is dripping wet and there are long, thin bruises on his arms the shape of fingers.

Dean shakes his head. "You were delirious," and Castiel hears what Dean is not saying. He must have hit Sam. He must have given Dean these bruises, and Castiel feels guilt and shame and wishes he wasn't so weak and trapped and helpless.

"I'm sorry," is all he can think to say, but Dean is still shaking his head and there's a soft smile on his face.

"Give me your hand."

Castiel obeys. There is glass embedded in his skin, he can feel it ripping at muscle, grinding against bone. "It's cool," Dean tells him, and sits himself on the edge of the tub, bends over Castiel's hand and starts teasing out slivers of glass. "Wish I hadn't cut my nails last week," he says and his smile turns strained, forced, as he pulls out shards with his fingers, tossing them into the sink. The blood is a stark red against the dirty white surface.

Castiel can't look away from the bruises marring Dean's arms.

"I can heal them-" Castiel starts to offer, but before he can finish Dean's head snaps up and stares at Castiel until he meets his eyes. There is no doubt in Castiel's mind that Dean is angry when he interrupts, "No you fucking can't. Cas, just, stop okay? Let us help you. It's fine. You didn't know who we were and you lashed out. We get that. Hell, I know I've done it myself a couple of times. Knocked Sam out cold once."

That isn't really the point, because Castiel shouldn't even be able to get sick and they both know it. As always though Dean is stubborn. He continues to scowl at Castiel until he nods. Castiel can accept the wisdom of preserving his strength; every part of this body right down to his Grace feels worn, so torn apart and heavy that Castiel can't imagine how he is ever going to heal himself. Blood still seeps from the cuts on his arm. His elbow feels shattered, every movement jarring bruised and splintered bones. At some point Dean and Sam must have taken off his shirt because now he can see his own chest and the deep, infected-looking wounds across his skin.

Dean is still watching him. "Yeah," he says. "You're a mess."

There are purple-yellow marks along his sides, and Castiel remembers Raphael kicking him very hard. "I have never been so-"

"Beat up?" Dean suggests. He's gone back to picking out the glass, and has maybe come to an impasse because he makes an irritated sound and lays Castiel's hand down on the rim of the bath.

"Don't move," he orders sternly.

While Dean is digging about searching for something, Castiel has the chance to look around the bathroom. It's wrecked. There's water everywhere; streaks of red across the faded pink wall tiles and the once-white floor. Towels and what looks like bandages lay in sodden piles. The glass shower screen is smashed, shards of it strewn across the area beside the bath. It's that, Castiel realises, he must have broken. When he moves his hand he can feel the glass embedded deep within the skin.

"I did this," Castiel says. Glancing back at him, Dean snorts.

"It was a group effort."

"The owner will be angry." Castiel wishes he could lean back but he knows there's glass in the water with him and he's damaged enough as it is. It's then he realises the water is _cold_, the hollowed out shells of ice-cubes still floating on the surface around him. He tries moving his toes and finds them slow and aching, seized up.

"We'll be out of here before he gets the chance to notice. Don't sweat it," Dean assures him, coming back to Castiel's side with tweezers and a bottle of clear liquid. "We've done this before."

Which isn't as reassuring as Dean seems to think. There's very little hiding them here. Castiel can sense that Dean and Sam have painted banishing sigils around the room, but that will serve only to banish him too. The care with which Dean lifts Castiel's hand, kneeling down beside him and painstakingly drawing out the slivers of glass with the tweezers makes Castiel doubt they mean to use them. He could teach them, Castiel thinks, sigils to turn away the eyes of others, except he is wary of giving that kind of knowledge- that kind of power- to humans, even if they are his friends.

The sopping pants he's still wearing stick to his legs uncomfortably, heavy and constraining under the water, this body so battered even the tiniest of movements sends jolts of pain along his spine. Like this, Castiel isn't sure he would even be able to remember the magic correctly.

"I'm cold," he tells Dean, wishing to get out of the bath and very aware that he's not going anywhere without help. His teeth are chattering and it hurts his jaw. Hurts his _teeth_.

Dean gives him a regretful smile and Castiel knows he has no intention of letting him out. He brushes a hand against Castiel's neck and the fleeting sensation is of warmth. Castiel wishes Dean would do it again. "Sorry, man, but you're still way too hot." Which Castiel doesn't understand at all because he is _freezing_.

"I'm not," he argues, wraps his free arm around his stomach because it is the instinct of his body to curl in on itself, trying to preserve its own heat.

"If you can stay coherent for another ten minutes we'll see," Dean allows.

As much as Castiel would like to dispute that _of course_ he will be, he's an angel, he doesn't get sick or delirious, Castiel isn't sure if all of these things are true anymore. He can hear his brothers but they are distant, like an echo. His memory is a mess of light and dark and heat and Dean and Sam, with moments like re-surfacing from underwater, or from Hell. Clarity, and a knowledge that everything hurt and that soon he would slip beneath that surface again. There were many times when Castiel wondered if he was going mad, if he would ever fully wake again. It's impossible to know how much time he lost. It's impossible to know what this war, with its battles, its murder and betrayal and lies, have made Castiel into. Not human, but not angel either, because how could an angel disobey as he has? How could an angel need to sit in a human bath tub because his vessel was failing him, with the evidence of his fevered madness all around him?

At least, Castiel thinks, he has his sanity. He clings to it. He doesn't pray.

They sit in silence for a time, Dean patient and Castiel flinching when he rubs what smells like alcohol across the wounds in his hand. His knuckles are swelling, Castiel realises, not broken but bruised.

"I know the decor's bad, but no more attacking the bathroom, okay?" Dean says lightly, leaning back and inspecting Castiel's hand critically.

Castiel promises, "I won't."

Dean's smile is a warm thing and Castiel is glad to see it.

They should be celebrating, Castiel thinks. There is no more Raphael. The war is over. This threat passed. The brothers shouldn't be stuck in an old motel taking care of an angel who doesn't even know if he's an angel anymore. From what Castiel can discern none of the other angels have attempted to resume the apocalypse. There is too much fear and doubt. Too much confusion, now more than ever. It's little consolation. For all that he has fought and lost Castiel doesn't feel like he's won much of anything at all.

For a time Castiel watches Dean, the way his brow furrows in concentration as he continues to pick glass, tiny shards now, out of Castiel's hand.

Before this, before Dean and Sam found Castiel dying on the floor of an undistinguished warehouse among the empty vessels of too many of his brothers, Castiel had thought he'd lost forever this strange friendship the three of them had built up over the past years. Through so many impossible battles, against Lucifer, his own loss of faith, his own kind, and Castiel had thought that Dean and Sam had finally given up on him. That asking them to just _trust_ him had been too much to ask. It had made Castiel wonder if the brothers had ever trusted him at all, or if he'd only ever been something _useful_. Castiel had doubted that everything Dean had ever told him about family had been a lie.

Castiel asks, "Why did you look for me?"

Dean tenses, his hand stilling. For a long moment he closes his eyes, his mouth a thin line. There is anger there and Castiel wonders what he's said wrong this time.

"Cas." Dean's words are heavy, as tired as Castiel feels, and when he meets Castiel's eyes it's with an intensity that he can't look away from. "I'm only gonna say this once." Dean takes a breath and Castiel shivers. "You're family, and if there's one thing I know it's that you don't give up on family, no matter how much of an asshole they've been."

It's very hard to refrain from telling Dean that _he_ was not the asshole, but Dean continues in earnest, "You disappeared on us. You wouldn't tell us what you were planning. That's not how we work. Jesus, look at what secrets and lies and shit like that did to me and Sam. You've _seen_ that. It never ends well." Dean looks pointedly at the deep cut running down Castiel's arm, the healing injuries across his chest. "But, what, you thought we were just gonna forget about you? No way in hell."

He returns his gaze to Cas's hand, picking it up gently. There's no glass left, but Dean tilts Castiel's wrist, turns his palm over, shaking his head. "We look out for each other. Or at least I thought we did."

Despite the fact that Castiel knows he's done nothing wrong, that his decisions were just, that they _worked_, he feels the urge to apologise.

"We do," Castiel says. "I do." And he means it. Much of the time it seems as though everything he does is to keep Dean and Sam safe. Facing Raphael was the only way to ensure their continued existence once and for all and Castiel wants Dean to understand this so he tells him, "What I did, it was the only way to end this."

Dean snorts. "But it isn't over is it? They're still after you."

"Not all the angels. They don't know what to do. But they're no longer trying to start another apocalypse." Castiel smiles without humour. "There are none left anymore with that kind of power."

"And what are you going to do?" Dean asks quietly.

It's something Castiel has been trying not to think about. "I don't know," he admits. "Live?"

At that, Dean looks up and he's half-smiling. "Good enough for me." Straightening, Dean releases Castiel's hand. It's still bleeding, but sluggishly. Lightly, Dean presses one of his own warm hands against Castiel's neck, nodding to himself. It's relief and closeness and Castiel leans back into the touch. Dean doesn't seem to mind. "Seeing as you're finally talking sense I guess I can let you out of the bath."

It's good, after so long shivering, to feel the heat of Dean's body when he leans down and wraps his arms around Castiel's back, pulling him carefully up. It barely hurts at all.

***

There was a time, Castiel remembers, when humans would wrap their dead in layers upon layers of linen. For the wealthiest, for the most powerful, every limb was carefully, individually swathed in thin bandages, and this is exactly the effect Castiel thinks Dean is trying to achieve now. He has bandages all along his arms and covering his chest completely and Castiel isn't sure Dean means to ever stop. It's oddly calming though, after the cold of the bath and then the heat and discomfort of Dean and Sam trying to dry and clean his wounds. They talk to each other quietly as they work, about the weather, about cleaning the blood from Dean's car, about the thinness of the towels and the disgusting taste of the motel's coffee. It does smell good though, and warm, like Dean and Sam in the morning when Castiel would meet them sometimes, before. They talk to Castiel about poor television reception and Dean tells him how Sam is sleeping in the chair because there are only two beds and Sam tells Castiel Dean is sleeping in the car. There is so much more damage to Castiel's being than their human eyes can see but he says nothing.

Castiel endures the treatment, if not gracefully because Sam keeps insisting that Castiel drink water and stay still and stop trying to push the blankets away. Castiel has come to understand what it means to be _mothered_ and it is tiresome.

"I am _fine_," Castiel grinds out because Dean has finished bandaging and has moved on to puffing the pillows Castiel is leaning against repeatedly, asking him if he needs anything, if he can get him anything, anything at all.

It's not difficult to see that Dean is restless, unsure what to do now that the immediate danger has passed.

So Dean dresses Castiel in his own clothes, too big but dry and warm and comfortable and soft in a way Jimmy's suit never was. Sam piles every blanket in the room over him. The sheets smell of stale smoke but it's better than being cold, Castiel decides. The bathroom door is open and Castiel can see glass still littering the floor. He is never going in there again.

Outside it's still raining, though lightly now, and every fifteen minutes or so Dean looks out the window, frowning. Castiel imagines it's his car he's checking on, but he can't see outside from where he's laying. He hears the rain and the wind and there's all he knows of the world outside this room.

It's dark again and Castiel can't work out how long he's been incognisant but now he has awareness, his thoughts clearer than they have been since the battle with Raphael, Castiel opens his senses. He listens carefully for the approach of any of his brothers, for their presence. It's unlikely he would survive another encounter like the last, and Castiel is certain he wouldn't have the strength to heal as he'd done with Sam.

Now he considers it, he shouldn't have been able to do that at all. It has been instinctual though: somehow he's _known_ it would work. Another thing for Castiel to not think about, miracles he didn't believe in anymore.

But wherever Dean and Sam have taken him, it is isolated. Castiel can sense very few humans close by, let alone any angels.

"You're fine," Dean repeats disbelievingly when Castiel tries to tell him for fifth time to let him be. "When you start healing yourself I'll believe you."

Castiel has neither the strength nor the patience to argue with Dean so he turns away and closes his eyes and apparently Dean takes this as acquiescence because he says, "Yeah. That's what I thought."

For a time Castiel pretends to sleep. It's easier than dealing with Dean and Sam and their fussing. He can hear them talking in low voices, discussing what to do next. Sam wants to stay and rest and Dean wants to move on and for a long time they throw the same arguments back and forth; they aren't safe here; Castiel shouldn't travel; they're both burned out; they have nowhere to _go_. At the end of it they still haven't come to any kind of decision and they fall silent. Castiel has the strong suspicion the brothers are looking at him and it makes him strangely self-conscious.

"You're not asleep," Dean says.

"I'm resting," Castiel says defensively, because he is. He doesn't open his eyes.

"You heard all that?" Dean sounds more tired than angry and Castiel decides it best to give up on any pretence. He wants to see Dean for himself. Both the brothers look worn and beaten, the skin around Sam's eye has turned yellow and purple and Castiel feels guilt again, knowing that he is responsible for this.

"Yes," Castiel admits, then because he can't fail but notice the way Dean winces when he moves to stand up, "I'm sorry."

Dean shrugs and comes to sit on the bed beside Castiel. It's not a strange thing, Castiel tells himself, to feel glad for the proximity. Castiel has been alone for a very long time. "We weren't discussing anything exactly earth-shattering."

"No. For this." Castiel gently wraps his hand around Dean's wrist where there are bruises, still red and sore-looking.

"I told you it was fine, man," Dean shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

Castiel continues anyway, "And for your eye Sam. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Sam smiles. "You just didn't know your own strength. It's cool. It was good to know you were still- you know-"

"An angel." Castiel isn't sure whether that's a good thing or not, but he is what he is, as he has always been. Even if that is a lie.

"Anyway," Dean says dismissively, "What do you think? Got any idea what we should do now?"

"I thought I didn't get an opinion." Castiel frowns, and is pleased when Dean huffs a laugh.

"You do now. I'm generous like that."

"Rest," Castiel tells them.

"Yeah. After that."

"I mean both of you," Castiel clarifies. "Like this, any decision you come to would be ill-advised."

"That's a vote for staying," Sam declares, looking triumphant.

Dean ignores his brother. "Won't they find us? The other angels?"

"Moving or staying still, it makes little difference." To an angel, the distance a human could travel in an hour, in a day, in a year, is little more than meaningless.

"Encouraging," Dean says dryly. He looks worriedly at the door as though he expects vengeful angels to burst through it at any moment and Castiel comes to a decision.

"I will teach you something," he says. "I require paper and a pen."

As Sam digs around in his bag Castiel assures himself this is the right thing to do. It will keep him safe, and it will keep Dean and Sam safe, and it's not like he has anything else left to lose anymore. There is no lower he can sink in the eyes of the other angels.

Carefully, Castiel draws a sigil on the crumpled sheet of paper Sam has given him. They all ignore the way Castiel's hand shakes. The memory though comes easily and Castiel loses himself in the pull and the energy and the beauty of this complex thing. These are things he knows and has known for millennia. They make sense to him, read like words on a page: this line to hide, this curve to blind, this point to draw strength. "You must create the sigil in exactly this order," he instructs, and remembers once teaching his own brothers the same thing. There were no pencils or paper and he had no flesh then, but somehow it stills feels the same.

Sam asks, "What does it do?"

"It will hide us from any creature that seeks us. Draw it on the door."

"Why the hell didn't you tell us about this before?" Dean demands. A hundred lies cross Castiel's mind but he doesn't have the stomach for any of them.

"When you found me I was not... aware enough to think of it."

"And then?" Dean presses.

"I was unsure," Castiel admits.

"You didn't trust us, you mean." Dean looks _disappointed_, unsurprised, and Castiel is sorry that his mistrust is so predictable.

"I trust you," Castiel says. "But throughout our history, whenever knowledge like this has been imparted on humanity, it has never ended well."

"For humanity or the angels?" Dean asks, and at least he isn't angry.

"For both." Castiel finishes the drawing anyway, entrusting the paper to Sam. "In blood, soil and water," he instructs.

"Of course in blood. Always in freaking blood." Dean is staring at Castiel's bandaged arm lying on top of the ugly pattered motel comforter. "Human blood will do? After all the effort we put in to _stopping_ you bleeding I am not cutting any more of your veins open."

"My blood would be more effective-"

"That's a yes, then," Dean cuts him off, making to stand up.

Sam beats Dean to his feet, pushes his brother back down. "I'll do it," and before Dean can argue he's grabbing a knife from his bag and moving towards the door.

"It isn't infallible," Castiel warns them. "But it will help."

Dean nods and pats Cas's shoulder lightly. Even that gentle touch hurts and Castiel can't stop himself from wincing.

"Sorry. Dude. Sorry." Dean pulls his hand away and, even though it hurt, Castiel finds himself missing the contact. He's afraid that Dean will move away from him completely but he stays, folds his hands together on his lap as though he doesn't know what to do with them.

Castiel shakes his head, not knowing what to say so he doesn't say anything. Instead, they both watch Sam painting red lines on the door with his fingertips. With every curve and line Castiel feels the spell taking shape, knows it's working as his own Sight dims behind its protections.

There are so many things Castiel has been ignoring for too long. Things he's not sure he wants to have to deal with, neither now nor ever, but he has trusted Dean and Sam with his life and with his magic, and he will trust them with this too.

"My wings," he says into the silence. It's as though speaking of them makes them real again, makes the twisted and brokenness of them something Castiel can no longer pretend never happened. He hasn't dared look upon them for days. Now they start to ache and Castiel wonders if the pain is a phantom thing and that the wings are in reality dead.

Sam pauses in his painting and Dean turns slowly to face him. "They're-" Castiel doesn't know how to describe it: shredded, torn, _useless_? "I can't fly," he decides on and has to try very hard to keep his voice even and his face blank.

Castiel needs Dean and Sam to know that he can't help them escape that way right now. That he can't leave.

"They'll heal, right?" Dean sounds uncertain, careful.

And this is the hardest thing of all. "I don't know."

What would he do? As an angel tied to Earth, he would never be able to leave. He would never be able to see Heaven again. There might not be anything left for him there, but Heaven is still his home. Forced to wander this world for eternity, Castiel wonders if it would drive him to madness.

"Is there anything we can do?" Sam asks from beside the door. He's finished painting the sigil and his fingers are stained with his own blood and he's frowning, worried. "Can we help fix them?"

In truth, Castiel doesn't know. He thinks of Dean's or Sam's hands touching the form of his wings, touching his Grace and he shivers. It would be too intimate. And what his Grace would do to human skin and bone Castiel can't begin to imagine. He doesn't think he could risk it so he replies, "I don't think so."

Sam's frown deepens and he looks away.

"It's fine," Dean announces. "We'll drive you wherever."

They both know it's not that simple. Dean can't drive a car across oceans, nor across the ether to the Heavens, but he says it like he means he'd try to do all those things anyway. This is, after all, Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester, who manages to do things that should be impossible all the time and Castiel appreciates the sentiment. So Castiel nods and takes Dean at his word.

"You'll love it," Dean says. "We're awesome to hang out with." He looks over at Sam thoughtfully. "Well, I am anyway. Sam is a pain in the ass."

"Screw you," Sam retorts, but there is no real anger behind it. "Cas and I are gonna have awesome intellectual conversations."

"Dude, no. They're boring and Cas thinks so too."

Castiel doesn't think this at all but he's so bemused he doesn't know how to intercede. Dean goes on, "Cas is gonna watch Doctor Sexy with me."

"Oh Jesus. Not that crap again-"

"Crap? _Crap_?!" Dean cuts in. "What the hell is wrong with you? Doctor Sexy is _class_."

Sam looks doubtful and not at all impressed. "I am not listening to this." Before Dean can say anything else Sam has taken possession of what Castiel has come to learn is the television's remote control. Smirking, he throws himself down on the other bed, waving the remote at Dean.

"Dude. You just got blood and shit all over the remote," Dean complains, disgusted, and Sam nods sagely. "And now we're going to watch something educational."

"You put the History Channel on and you're doing the laundry for the next _century_," Dean threatens.

The brothers bicker and fight over the channel and Castiel is more fascinated by the way they seem to enjoy insulting each other than by anything on the television. With Dean sitting beside him on the bed, a warm presence, and Sam close by, his blood writing magic on the door, holding out the other angels, Castiel finds himself more calm, less anxious than he has been in days. Perhaps than he has been in months. It's not really sleep he falls into, because he can still hear Sam and Dean and the television, but it's restful all the same. Long after the room has become quiet and the lights switched off, after Dean has complained under his breath about Castiel hogging the bed but has done nothing more than laid down beside him, Castiel realises that he has not thought about the pain, or his twisted wings, or the uncertain future in many hours.

***

On another highway, on another day, somewhere outside of Springfield, Illinois, Dean turns in the passenger seat with a gleeful expression on his face and declares, "Man, we gotta get you on one of those game shows."

"Yeah," Sam snorts. "Great idea, Dean. Put Cas on TV. See how quickly the other angels find us."

"No way those assholes watch TV."

"Didn't Zachariah say he watched some soap?"

Dean grimaces. "_Quality_ TV."

"Like Jeopardy," Sam says dryly.

"Cas could win us a shit ton of money. He knows _everything_." The pride in Dean's voice, the excitement, makes Castiel feel strangely pleased and it makes him want to do anything Dean asks just so he can remain this uncomplicatedly happy.

"Except anything to do with pop culture," Sam points out. Unusually, Sam is the one at the wheel of the Impala, and he seems to be taking great pleasure in it. Castiel wonders if Dean would teach him to drive.

Dean waves dismissively. "He'd just need to avoid those." He addresses Castiel directly. "You could do that, right? You picked up the rules fast enough-"

Sam interrupts, "They're not exactly rocket science, Dean," and Dean ignores him.

"-and you liked answering the questions? You'd be kick ass."

The absolute confidence Dean has in him is welcome, too, even if it is over television game shows. If Castiel is honest, he has to admit that he was not entirely disinterested in the hours of such shows they have watched in their motel room over the past two days.

Castiel's wounds healed slowly and Dean and Sam attempted to feed and entertain him. Castiel tried take out and salad and refused burgers because they only ever remind him of Famine and that time, but he enjoyed milkshakes and doughnuts. He and Sam resumed their game of Uno, and Dean refused to join in, and not once did any of them mention the future. It was enough to rest and to be glad for their lives at that moment, together. Castiel couldn't remember a time before when the three of them had been this way; unhurried, comfortable in each other's presence, without the weight of worlds on their conscience.

When they slept Castiel would lie awake, listening to them breathe, and listening to the night and the wind and the endless rain. He learnt the comfort of lying down, of being covered by blankets, and he learnt the welcome warmth and weight of sharing a bed. Dean complained that Castiel look up all the space, and he complained that Castiel watched him creepily, and he asked why _he_ had to be the one to share? But when it came to it, if Dean didn't just fall asleep watching television propped up next to Castiel, sometimes relaxing into Castiel's side, Dean would crawl into the space beside Castiel in silence. He slept heavily and he often shifted closer to Castiel in the night and Sam never mentioned it so Castiel didn't either.

All the time, Castiel knew they were trying to come to a decision about what to do next. For Castiel it was much easier to make a choice than he had expected; he would stay with Sam and Dean regardless of whether his wings healed or not. For now, Castiel would not return to Heaven. His presence there would only be divisive and he had nothing to offer his brothers anymore. He had no assurances and no direction. He would not tell any of them what to do. That, Castiel had decided, was up to them now.

"The questions were simple," Castiel says dismissively. "Anyone would have known the answers."

"They really wouldn't." Dean is grinning, and even if they aren't actually headed anywhere specific- Sam had just picked a direction and driven- it still feels like they're getting somewhere. Dean's music plays from the car radio but it is quiet.

Endless flat fields of corn border the empty road Sam is following. The ground, saturated from days of rain, throws spray against the car windows and Castiel watches the shapes it makes, watches the water slide across glass. The sky is an ominous, unchanging expanse of dark grey, but now that he can sit up straight and move without every inch of his human body hurting Castiel finds the dullness a welcome change from months of movement and colour and change. It is quiet blankness.

That morning, in the short distance Castiel had walked from the motel to the car he'd felt the coolness of the air, the gentle touch of light, hazy rain on his face. Castiel liked the way the wind blew the water against his face and he would've stayed there, revelling in the sensation, if Dean hadn't _scolded_ him, threatening to leave Castiel behind if he didn't _get into the car right the fuck now_.  
  
Castiel looks up at the sigils Sam and Dean have painted on the Impala's roof. The spells hold strong and Castiel can feel the determination, the protectiveness, the love the brothers have poured into every symbol. Castiel doubts they realise how much of themselves they have laid bare.

There is a growing sense of unease, though, as Castiel focuses on the sigils. They are perfectly in place, deflecting attention- and there are many eyes seeking him out- but something, _someone_, is seeking the sigil itself. There aren't many who know magic like this, fewer still who could construct it, and all Castiel can think is that it is his former allies. His closest friends. It should be a comforting realisation, but it isn't at all. And Castiel hasn't lived this long by making assumptions. By trusting.

"Stop the car," he orders, and Sam immediately veers off the road, breaking sharply.

"What is it?" Dean demands, swivelling in his seat to look at Castiel. "You okay?"

The concern on Dean's face surprises Castiel. Sam, too, turns towards him, attention undivided.

So many thoughts pass through Castiel's mind; he should have known he couldn't stay hidden for long. How if his wings weren't still useless he could’ve flown away, saved Dean and Sam from having to face more angels. How Dean and Sam would hate him for that. How Castiel had promised Dean there would be no more lies and deception. "They have found me," Castiel admits.

The brothers don't need to be told who _they_ are.

"Fuck," Dean swears. "Those assholes just don't quit." He turns to Sam. "We still got those angel knives, right?"

"In the trunk," Sam nods.

Castiel can hear his brothers drawing close now, moving through atmosphere. They aren't trying to disguise their approach and that might count for something.

There is a part of Castiel that wants nothing more than to give himself up, to surrender. A life- an eternity- of pursuit and hiding, of never being able to _stop_ doesn't appeal to Castiel. He's known little else for the past two years and Castiel doesn't think he could stand living this way indefinitely. Without hope, ultimately and inevitably without Dean or Sam, in exile.

Dean, Castiel knows, would never allow Castiel to give in so easily. He would be angry if he knew Castiel even thought this way, but he is not the one hunted. He isn't the one who will be hunted until the end of time. And it isn't, a quiet, cold part of Castiel whispers, as though Dean has never given in himself. Taken the easy route.

But Castiel says nothing, remains silent as Sam exits the car, the door slamming loudly shut behind him.

"Stay there," Dean orders, pointing at Castiel and scowling sternly even though he has to know that Castiel will do nothing of the sort if it comes to fighting the angels. Castiel favours Dean with a raised eyebrow in reply.

"Right," Dean snorts. "Just. Don't do anything stupid?"

That cold, vicious part of Castiel wants to reply, _Like something you would do, you mean?_. But Castiel has come to learn that that his irritation is borne of frustration and worry rather than any real anger at Dean. Human emotions are so contradictory, so paradoxical, that much of the time Castiel doubts he will ever understand them.

Instead he says, "They are close."

Dean hesitates for a long moment, his face blank, before pushing himself out of his seat to join his brother. Castiel hears Sam say, "We're out of holy oil. We used the last of it on-"

"Yeah," Dean cuts him off. "I get it."

On _him_, Castiel remembers. It might have felt like a betrayal if Castiel hadn't been lying to Dean for months.

Then, the presence of Ecanus, Manakel and Purah solidifies, manifesting a few feet in front of Dean's car. Castiel knows each of them well. They make no move to attack, looking from Dean to Sam to Castiel, and Castiel won't meet their eyes.

"Whatever you're here for, we're not interested," Dean announces, all bravado and disdain. The angels bristle at his tone but ignore him, addressing Castiel.

"Return with us," Purah says. It's more plea than demand and none of the angels have drawn their swords. Castiel can almost believe they are still his followers rather than more assassins sent to end his existence. But he knows that angels deceive, and even if they are sincere, even if all they want is for someone to lead them, for someone to tell them what to do, Castiel will not go. Castiel _doesn't want_ to go, and it's something of a revelation that he has that choice to make now. No war. No orders. No hierarchy. Not anymore.

He worries about what the other angels will do without these things; Castiel remembers how twisted up he was, how difficult everything became with no one to tell him what to do or what was right or wrong. It left him with no direction, and no faith. If he knew how, Castiel would spare his brothers that, but choice and freedom and free will are not things you can teach. They would have to discover it for themselves. At least they would not be as alone and as hunted as Castiel had been.

Before Castiel can reply, though, Dean tells the angels, "He isn't going anywhere." He lifts his knife in warning. Nakir’s. It barely remembers that anymore.

Again, the angels ignore Dean.

"We need your direction. Your wisdom," Ecanus implores, and makes the mistake of taking a step forward. In an instant Dean is moving to block Ecanus so that Castiel can no longer see his vessel, only Dean's back.

"I told you. He isn't. Going. Anywhere." The way Dean speaks is low and threatening. Castiel can see the low-burning anger in Dean, the hatred for angels and all they've done. Distrust. Aggression. Ecanus's grace distorts, ripples with indignation and dislike, meeting Dean's anger with a defensiveness of his own. Behind him Castiel senses the other angels tense, wings pulled back and swords unsheathed and it is a movement Castiel recognises as a prelude to an attack.

If he can help it, Castiel won't allow this to devolve into violence.

He calls to his brothers in a language he hasn't spoken in a long time; peace. To his surprise the angels back down, taking a step back. It shouldn't be a surprise, Castiel remembers. They're just obeying orders after all.

Slowly, painfully, Castiel hauls himself out of the backseat of Dean's car, cursing cumbersome doors and uncooperative human legs and is glad when Sam is there, beside him, helping him up.

It is weakness and if he were still as he had been before meeting Dean and Sam and Hell and humanity Castiel would be ashamed. But he's not. He's more irritated than anything at how difficult everything is. How difficult _everyone_ is.

Castiel feels the wind cutting through his coat, the light rain falling into his eyes, and he shivers.

This is a quiet road, but while there were occasional cars passing by before they are none now. The angels must have done something, twisted reality somehow. It's an easy enough thing to do.

"Cas," Sam says. He lets Castiel stand on his own but stays close, hovering. "You don't have to-"

"I do," Castiel interrupts. Then he does meet his brothers' eyes, each in turn. He sees their surprise and their disbelief. They ask without speaking, _What happened to you?_ and, _How have you come to be so mortal?_ Perhaps there is concern too, but it makes no difference.

"I have no more wisdom than you," Castiel tells them. He stands before these three brothers who fought with him, and were loyal and brave, and listened raptly when he spoke. They followed their orders to perfection and now Castiel must tell them not to listen to him. Not to do as he says. He never was very good at speeches.

"I am a soldier," Castiel says. "That's all I ever was, and all I ever will be. I've done everything I can to give you choice, so _choose_."

They are disappointed and confused. They don't understand. But it's not as though Castiel understands what he's doing either and he's been making his own choices for years. Castiel has long suspected that humans, who are born with all the free will they could ever want, don't understand this gift of free will they have either.

He remembers saying, "_We're making it up as we go_." Never could he have imagined then how prophetic those words would be.

"What if I choose," Ecanus offers uncertainly, "to stay with you? To follow you."

Dean laughs. "Dude. Clingy much?"

"What would that achieve?" Castiel asks. "I am staying with the Winchesters. That is my choice." Beside him, Castiel feels Dean straighten as though he were surprised. "I will stay with my friends." Castiel wants to suggest his brothers should do the same, but he knows they will take it as direction. As an order. So he says nothing.

They stare at him blankly and Castiel considers showing them his memories, giving them his experiences so that they might understand why Castiel has to let them go. Perhaps, though, that would defeat the purpose, and worse, since Castiel first came to Earth- to Dean- he has learnt that some things are private. And there are many things that have happened that Castiel doesn't like to remember himself, let alone share.

"I have nothing left to offer you," Castiel admits. He is tired and he is worn. His wings are broken and twisted. There are times- when he sleeps or when he feels pain or when he thinks of Dean- that Castiel doesn't feel like an angel at all anymore. The other angels must be able to see all of this in him.

There is nothing more to say, so Castiel turns away, returns to the backseat of the car with slow, shuffling steps that are painful and leave him breathless, his heart beating abnormally fast in his chest. He's glad to be out of the rain, though it never bothered him before.

Without needing to ask, Sam and Dean understand that it is time to leave. That Castiel wishes to leave. They back away cautiously, the knives still tightly held in their hands and their eyes trained on the three angels, but none of them move. His brothers stare at each other and Castiel dares to pray that they will be alright. Heaven is strong. His brothers are strong. He has to believe the angels can adapt to this new order, this new existence. Hopefully they will do better than Castiel has.

"Go," Dean orders when they are seated and the doors are closed. Sam obeys, steering around Castiel's brothers before putting his foot down, hard. The acceleration is like the lifting of a spell, the clearing of air, and Castiel senses the world shifting back into its correct place.

They travel at speed for some hours- well above the speed limit, Castiel knows- in silence. The whole time Dean is focused on the side mirror, and Castiel doesn't bother to remind him that neither speed nor human sight would be of use if his brothers chose to intercept them.

Eventually, long after the rain has stopped and afternoon has turned to evening, Dean speaks. "Well that was weird."

Sam snorts in reply. "No kidding." He relaxes, rotating his shoulders and arching his back, stretching, leaving the tension behind.

Castiel can see the way Dean fidgets in his seat, casts cautious looks in the rear-view mirror back towards Castiel. There is something Dean wants to ask, but isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

"There're gonna be more," he says. It's not a question, but Castiel replies anyway.

"Yes."

Dean's silence suggests he was looking for more than that. It's curious, Castiel thinks, how silences can say so much.

"Some will want to kill me. Some won't," he offers.

"And you're sticking with us."

Castiel knows better than to say anything other than, "Yes."

There is a strange silence again, uncertain, before Dean decides, "Then we should show you some cool stuff. Earth cool stuff."

"He's seen Earth, Dean," Sam points out sensibly. "More than we have."

"I bet he hasn't seen the Butter Jesus," Dean retorts, folding his arms.

"The- what?"

Castiel would also like to know, because he is very sure the Son of their Father was not made of curdled milk.

"The Butter Jesus," Dean repeats, and it still doesn't make any sense. "It's in Ohio." He turns in his seat to face Castiel. "You haven't seen it, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Castiel admits, and Dean grins at him.

"Awesome. We'll go check it out."

"You want to see- what- a figure of Jesus made of butter?" Sam says, incredulous. "Seriously?"

Dean shrugs. "I thought it would be, I dunno, cool."

"Cool," Sam repeats slowly.

"Inspiring?"

"For toast maybe."

Dean laughs, and in the rear-view mirror Castiel can see that Sam is smiling too.

"This is insane," Sam says.

"It's better than worrying about shit we can't do anything about. It'll be fun. Like- a vacation." Dean glances at Castiel. "I bet Cas has never had a vacation."

He hasn't. The concepts of rest and idleness- frivolity- are alien to angels. But Castiel would like to learn.

"I would like to see the Butter Jesus," he decides, and is pleased when Dean laughs again. He's amused when Sam groans and laments, "Not you too, Cas?"

Sam doesn't argue though when Dean starts digging through the glove compartment looking for maps, and he doesn't complain that night when they stop at a motel and Dean demands that Sam look up every strange and unusual attraction he can think of on his laptop. Sam, as much as any of them, needs this. It is a break from reality. From responsibility and worry and battle after endless battle. They are all worn down to the bone, flayed and splintering. They have all been pushed far beyond their limits, far enough that Castiel wonders if any of them really know how to _be_ any other way than constantly on guard. Constantly expecting the very worst.

For Castiel, it is the first time in a very long time that he has felt companionship. It is better than anything he has felt before because this is the kind where Castiel can be sure Dean and Sam- his friends- will not leave him behind.

Sometimes, Castiel thinks they should have been like this before, after Castiel had rebelled, or after Sam had come back from Hell, but it is enough that they have it now. He is still hunted, and he still listens to his brothers' voices and regrets so many things. The three of them are all soldiers, first and foremost, and sooner or later Castiel is sure they will fall back into the world of hunting and demons and darkness. But this time, at least, when they do, they will do it together.

**.End.**


End file.
